


And For the Record

by Edward_Fairfax



Series: Points and Counterpoint [1]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Major Character Injury and/or Illness, Operas, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-10
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 21:13:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 228,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8176253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edward_Fairfax/pseuds/Edward_Fairfax
Summary: Sid has never liked his laugh. How could he have known that his laugh would end up winning him everything he never knew he wanted?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few notes.
> 
> This story is tagged as "Alternate Universe" and as "Canon Divergence." These are understatements (in some ways, this universe is so alternate as to belong to another order of reality), so if you are the kind of person who likes her or his hockey fics to hew as closely as possible to actual facts (such as game schedules, wins/losses, or team rosters), you might want to give this one a miss. For example, James Nealer is still on the Pens in this story, because I absolutely refused to give up on a pun on his name that appears in Chapter 14. That said: I've tried as much as possible to present a realistic series of events, but there should be no doubt that this is fiction.
> 
> This is a long story. The whole thing is (finally!) complete, and because it does build slowly, I'm going to try to post a large chunk of it right at the outset, but will then probably revert to a less insane posting schedule of a chapter a day. A lot happens in the story, and I will add tags and chapter warnings as things progress. If I miss anything you think should be tagged, please let me know.
> 
> If you do decide to forge ahead, I really hope you enjoy it!

Sid has never liked his laugh. The nicest thing anyone has ever said about it is that it's exuberant; what his sister Taylor says about it doesn't bear repeating. So when he was in public, he tried not to laugh too often, because for sure he didn't need yet another reason to feel self-conscious.

But this morning, sitting with a few of the guys in the hotel restaurant, he found himself relaxing and actually joining in the chirping flying back and forth across the table. Everybody was in a good mood—even though it was just a charity thing, and the preseason hadn't even started yet, they'd won the night before against the Flyers, so of course—and Geno and Nealer in particular were seemingly trying to outdo each other in absurdity, to the point that Sid, almost involuntarily, let loose with his honking laugh.

As soon as he did, he felt his shoulders shrink into himself a bit, and he looked around furtively, hoping he hadn't made a spectacle of himself . . . again. The restaurant was pretty much empty, but his hope of having escaped notice was destroyed when he saw the guy at the only other occupied table in the place staring at him in disbelief. Sid could feel his cheeks get a little red, and when the other guy caught his eye and got a wide grin on his face, Sid's whole face got hot.

He looked down at his hands, and then tried to busy himself with arranging his knife and fork, but he really wasn't surprised when he heard a voice behind his right shoulder say, “Excuse me.”

He turned a little, and looked up . . . and saw that blinding grin again, topped by a pair of bright greenish eyes, the corners of which were crinkled in amusement.

“Uh. Yes?” Out of the corner of _his_ eyes, he could see Flower, and Geno beyond him, tense a little, ready to spring into action (Geno in particular).

“I'm sorry to interrupt, but . . . is it possible you could make that noise again? Or was it a one-shot deal?”

Nealer broke into his own raucous laugh, and Geno wasn't much quieter. Now, Sid felt his face _flaming_.

“No worry,” Geno said, “sky not falling. That just Sid's laugh. It the worst.”

“No! Not at all! It's the best actually,” the unknown guy said. At that, even Flower started to chuckle.

“No, seriously. I mean it.” Now the guy sounded earnest. “Let me explain. It's for work.”

He kept on talking, but Sid stopped listening, because the guy had changed his stance, and in the new light, his eyes looked brown. Well, with green flecks. Whatever color they were, they were . . . intense.

Sid tuned in again in time to hear him say, “So, if you could just laugh again, I could memorize how it sounds.”

Sid didn't really know what to say. Fortunately, Flower did.

“You really want to learn Sid's laugh?” he asked dubiously.

The guy nodded his head up and down several times.

“Yeah, I do. I mean, I wasn't in favor of changing things in the first place. But if it's going to be a . . . thing, you know? A contest? Then of course I want to win.” He smiled widely. “And with that laugh, I will.”

Well. Wanting to win was something Sid could understand, at least. Even if he hadn't heard why. But still. . . . He looked up at the guy, and met those eyes again, and felt compelled to say _something_.

“Um. I can't exactly laugh on demand. You know? So, sorry.”

A look of _something_ flashed, just for an instant, across the guy's face, and his smile dimmed a little. But he was still smiling when he said, taking a step backwards, “Oh, please don't worry about it. And I'm sorry to bother. . . .”

Geno broke in. “You not want to win, Sid? What wrong?” And he gave Sid a Geno-patented look tinged with mischief, even as he pulled his phone out. He turned to the stranger and said, “You no need Sid to laugh in person. You look on YouTube. It everywhere. I have bookmark for my favorite.” He tapped a couple of buttons and held his phone out to the guy, whose face had lit up again.

“Geno! What the hell!” And Sid lunged towards Geno, trying to grab the phone—and in the process shoulder-checked Flower right into the guy, who stumbled backwards and crashed into an empty chair at the next table.

Now Sid felt even more embarrassed, and he flushed bright red again.

Standing up, he walked over to the guy and said, “I'm sorry.” Somewhat stiffly, he offered his hand to help the guy up—but it wasn't needed, as the guy smoothly stood—with an economy of motion, Sid noted absently, that wouldn't have been out of place on the ice.

“No worries—it was clearly an accident.”

Sid nodded, and then turned back to the table. “Sorry, Flower. I didn't mean for you to get caught in that.”

Flower waved a hand in dismissal.

Sid was about to sit down, and hope that this whole encounter was over with, when the guy let out another laugh.

“Your name is Flower?” And without waiting for an answer, he turned back to Sid. “You threw someone named Flower at me?” He laughed delightedly.

Sid exchanged puzzled glances with the others. Nobody else seemed to get it either.

“Why that funny?” Geno asked.

“Oh, it's just . . . well, call it an inside joke. Flowers get thrown a lot in my line of work.” He grinned. “Sometimes they even get thrown at me. But not usually a flower as big as you.” He bowed slightly to Flower, who laughed.

“What exactly is it you do, dude?”

“I'm an opera singer.” There was a moment of silence from everybody at the table, and the guy's mouth quirked. “That means I stand on a stage and sing really, really loudly in all sorts of different languages about things that don't make a lot of sense if you think about them logically. Or at least, that's what a lot of people think an opera singer does.” He looked around the table. “And what do you guys do?”

All of his teammates looked at Sid, who sighed inwardly. “We're hockey players.”

“Really? What team?”

“The Pens . . . uh, the Pittsburgh Penguins.”

“Oh, pro players. Nice.” The guy nodded once or twice. “You guys must be very good.” He fixed his eyes on Sid. “Have you ever won the Super Bowl?”

Sid couldn't help himself . . . his jaw dropped, and he just stared in disbelief as the other man raised his eyebrows. After a couple of seconds, though, his lips twitched; Sid felt his own eyes narrow, and at that, the guy burst out laughing so hard he couldn't talk for a few seconds.

When he'd recovered, he said, “Oh my God! Your face—it was priceless! You looked like a constipated squirrel. Or maybe a constipated chipmunk. But definitely constipated!”

Which of course set the other guys off; Sid had the sinking feeling that a new nickname had just been born.

The guy shook his head, a bit apologetically, and leaned a little closer. “I'm really very sorry. That was incredibly . . . inappropriate of me. But you all looked at me as if I were an alien from another planet when I said I sang opera; I suppose I wanted some payback.”

Fair enough, Sid thought. Although. . . .

“You do know that it's the Stanley Cup in hockey, right?”

Opera guy rolled his eyes so hard Sid was kind of surprised they didn't fall out.

“Yes, since I'm not an imbecile. And since this seems to be quiz time, tell me something: can you name five Italian operas?”

Uh. . . . “No.”

“Ah. Well, then. I guess I win.” He laughed. “And with that: our breakfasts seem to be ready, so please let me apologize for bothering you, and I'll leave you to eat in peace.”

Nobody at the table was more surprised than Sid when he blurted out, “Why don't you join us?”

The eyebrows went up again. He had a really expressive face, Sid thought—even more so than Geno's, which was currently goggling at him in disbelief.

“Are you serious?”

“Yes?” Sid flushed a little. “Yes. Join us. We can . . . um, educate each other.”

After staring at Sid for a few seconds, he huffed out a laugh, and said, “Sure.” He held out his hand and said, “My name is Andrew Singleton, and I'm an opera singer. Have you ever heard of me?”

Sid couldn't help it: he laughed a little, said, “No,” and then held out his own hand.

“And I'm Sidney Crosby, and I'm a hockey player. Have you ever heard of me?”

“Nope.” Andrew settled into an empty chair. “But I know you play for the Penguins. And are on YouTube.” He grinned. “I'm on YouTube too. Probably not as much as you, though.” And then he laughed. Again.

There was something about that laugh. . . . Sid grinned back. “Then I guess I win.”

And this time they both laughed.

**********

“So, speaking of YouTube,” Andrew said, a little indistinctly, as he swallowed some oatmeal, “what are the, I don't know, hockey moments that everybody should know about? I'm sorry if it offends you, but I can only think of one.”

“Which one?”

“When Bobby Orr scored the goal that won the Bruins the Stanley Cup in . . . 1972, was it?”

“1970,” Sid corrected. “They won then, and again in 1972, but 1972 was Orr in the first period, and 1970 was Orr in overtime. That one would probably make everybody's list. Well, everybody who's studied the game. How do you know that one, but nothing more recent?” Sid asked, curious.

“Well, I'm from Boston, first of all, and it's kind of legendary. Plus, on the wall of the barber shop where my dad and I get our hair cut, there's a picture of Orr flying through the air making that goal, so I've been looking at it about once a month for my whole life.”

“So, why aren't you a fan,” Nealer asked. “I mean, you grew up in a hockey town. You like some other sport?”

Andrew shrugged. “I never really had the time. I mean, I enjoy doing stuff—like swimming, you know?” He grinned around the table, and added, “I even used to skate in the winters. But I've mainly been focused on my voice. I started lessons when I was six or seven, and then, when my voice changed, it got even more intensive, and my training was pretty much all I had time for.” He started munching on a piece of toast.

“That sound familiar,” Geno said, and both Sid and Flower agreed.

“Anyway, give me a list of what I should watch. Top ten hockey moments.”

“Only ten?” Geno said. “You hurt Sid's head again making him choose only ten.”

Andrew looked enquiringly at Sid, who just shook his head. “Long story,” he said, taking another forkful of eggs. “But probably not as long as a list of essential hockey moments.”

And then the debate began. Andrew listened for a while, spooning up his oatmeal, but then held up his hands to halt the torrent.

“Hold up, guys. I'll never remember all of this. Let me get some paper.” He wiped his mouth, dropped his napkin on the table, and went over to where he'd been sitting. He brought back his coat and a large messenger bag, dumped them on the other empty chair, and dug out a notepad and pen, which he handed to Sid.

“Here. Pass this around. And since ten is so clearly inadequate, maybe . . .” he considered as he looked around the table, “five from each of you? But they can't all of them be of you, James.”

Nealer whined, “But dude . . .” as everybody else laughed, and Sid paused in making his list to think that although Andrew might not be a hockey player or even a fan—and was, in fact, abysmally ignorant—he nonetheless knew the fundamental rule of hockey: mocking was required.

When the pad got back to Andrew, he scanned it, while finishing his fruit.

“I've got my work cut out for me,” he commented. “Thanks, guys.”

There was a little silence as the waiter refilled people's coffee, and then Nealer shifted in his seat. “So, dude, are you any good? At the singing, I mean?”

Sid groaned internally. As socially awkward as he knew he was sometimes, even he knew that wasn't something you asked out loud like that. Even though he'd been tempted to ask it himself.

Andrew didn't seem to take offense, though. He just laughed again, and said, “People seem to think so. And not just my mom and dad, either. Objectively speaking, though: I think I'm pretty good, most of the time.” He picked up his last piece of toast. “But I can always be better, right?”

Sid nodded emphatically, while Flower and Geno snickered. “You speaking Sid's language,” Geno said, after Sid muttered, “Fuck off!” under his breath and shoulder-checked Flower.

Andrew raised his eyebrows, but before he could say anything, Nealer broke in again. “So have you sung anything that we might have heard of?” This time, Sid actually winced, and Geno muttered, not at all softly, “Shut face, Lazy.”

Andrew's eyebrows went up even further, but he didn't hesitate in replying, “Probably not.” It was said perfectly politely, but with an edge that even Sid didn't miss. Then Andrew grinned again, and Sid was struck by the thought that he didn't think anybody could be that good-humored. “No, wait: I have sung the national anthem, and I'll bet you've heard that.”

“Once or twice,” Flower said dryly.

After giving Geno a considering look, Andrew said, “And I imagine you might know some of the other things I've done.” He thought for a second; “Do you know 'Gori, gori, moya zvezda?'”

Geno gaped. “You sing that?”

Andrew nodded.

“You sing that.” This time, it was not a question.

“Uh, now?” Andrew looked around, and Sid did too. The restaurant was still empty; only one other table was filled, with two kind of elderly women. Andrew shrugged, and then called over to the waiter, “Hey, Freddie. I'm going to make a little noise. Okay?” Freddie responded by putting his hands over his ears and grinning; Andrew laughed, and confided to the table at large, “He's known me since I was five.” He then took a breath and started singing.

He wasn't singing loudly, but his voice seemed to fill the entire room. Rich, lush, and resonant, his voice floated and soared and surrounded those listening. Sid couldn't understand a word he was singing, since it was, presumably, Russian, but he felt like he could almost reach out and touch the emotions Andrew was projecting. It was foreign . . . and yet somehow familiar. Sid felt pulled in different directions: his innate distaste for change pushed him away, and yet a desire to explore this new, strange thing pulled him in. It was altogether confusing, and contradictory, and . . . and then Sid realized something else. The way he was feeling was not at all unlike the way he could feel warm and welcomed skating onto the ice before a game. And as Andrew finished the song, Sid realized something else. Even though he knew next to nothing about singing, especially this kind of singing, he knew that Andrew was really, really good.

**********

When the song ended, Geno stood up, and without a word, strode over to Andrew and yanked him up into a hug. Having been the recipient of those kinds of hugs (bears had nothing on Geno), Sid winced a little. But Andrew seemed to take it in stride. And then Sid saw Geno put his head on Andrew's shoulder, and then his own shoulders started to shake a little, and Sid had just enough time to wonder if Geno was actually crying, when the two women who'd been sitting across the restaurant, who'd started clapping at the end of the song, came over.

“Excuse us. . . .”

The sound of voices seemed to bring Geno back from wherever it was he'd gone, and he raised his head and muttered something hoarsely to Andrew—who responded softly, but Sid could tell it was in Russian too. Then Andrew turned to the women.

“Hello,” he said, sounding genuinely pleased.

“Aren't you . . . you're Andrew Singleton, aren't you?”

“I am.”

“As soon as you started singing, we recognized your voice. That was just beautiful.”

Now Andrew looked a little embarrassed. “Why, thank you. It sounds a little better with some accompaniment. I don't usually sing in restaurants,” he laughed a little, “but my friend here wanted to hear a song from home.” As he spoke, he started moving away from the table, drawing the women back towards their own, where he stood chatting with them for a minute.

Nealer leaned over. “You okay, G?”

Geno nodded. “Sorry. It just that . . . I miss sometimes, you know? Long time between visits. And . . . it fresh now, when I just back.”

Nealer nodded, and bumped Geno with his shoulder. “He's pretty good, you think?”

“He the best,” Geno said fervently. “Must be half-Russian. At least half.”

“How come?”

“Only Russian can sing joy and pain at same time.” He looked over to where Andrew was still talking to the women, and then leaned towards Sid.

“Sid. Why you invite him to eat with us?”

Sid opened his mouth, and then closed it again. He started feeling uncomfortable, and didn't really want to answer, but this was Geno, so he thought for a few seconds, shrugged, and told the truth.

“I don't know.”

“Not really like you, Sid.”

“I know that,” Sid said, snapping a little. “It was just . . . ugh, Geno, I don't know—spur of the moment.” Which was also not like him, as everybody at that table well knew, but whatever.

“Not saying it bad, Sid. And me, I glad you did. Heard Russian song, sung Russian style. He good guy, I'm think—even though he stupid about hockey.”

“At least he's willing to learn,” Flower said judiciously. “You notice none of us asked him for a list of famous opera . . . well, whatever opera's famous for.”

Nealer snickered. “Yeah, no thanks, dude. But I think G's right. He seems nice. Happy, you know?” He looked over at Andrew. “And hey, at least this time the fans are bugging him and not us.”

**********

When Andrew got back to the table, he said, “Sorry about that,” as he slid back into his seat. Freddie materialized with a new, hot cup of coffee, and Andrew thanked him with a smile.

“No problem. We used to it.”

Andrew quirked an eyebrow. “I suppose you are at that. To be honest, it's still kind of new to me, even after seven years or so. I sometimes find myself wondering what bizarre, alternate universe I've fallen into.” He glanced back at his two fans and then grinned slightly. Leaning forward, he said softly, “I'd be willing to wager that those two are just a _little_ older than the fans you typically see.”

Flower snorted. “Here, maybe. But not in Canada. Hockey knows no age there.”

Andrew said something in French that Sid didn't quite catch, but which made Flower laugh.

Andrew glanced at his watch and made a face. “I've got to get going in a minute.” He glanced around; “Freddie: may I settle up?” He took out his wallet and pulled out a credit card. Freddie came over to take it, and made some gesture that Sid couldn't see; Andrew nodded and then picked up his coffee cup again.

“So, dude,” Nealer said, “when are you gonna come see us play? I mean, I know we're awesome off the ice and all, but we're even better on it.”

Geno smacked him on the head. “Some of us, maybe. But, you want to come see game?”

“Actually . . . yes. I think I do; you guys have made me curious. I'm guessing I can find your schedule online?”

He pulled out his phone and searched. After scanning through it, he said, “Well, I could see you play in New York, or Boston even—I think I'm home that week. But that's not for a while, so maybe it makes sense. . . . I'm going to be in Pittsburgh soon for a few days. I should see you play on home ice.” He nodded, and then turned to Sid.

“I believe we have some unfinished business, you and I.”

“Uh, we do?”

“Yes. Since I now know that there are many, many examples of your laugh on YouTube, I _could_ consider it public domain and simply use it. But I'd rather have your permission to imitate it. So I'm prepared to make you a deal. Or, a bet, maybe.”

“What kind of bet?” Sid said, curious despite himself.

Andrew leaned back in his chair, looked at Sid for a moment, and then said, quite seriously, “I'm convinced that if I bring your laugh into rehearsal, I will win the contest. And if I do, we should both win something. So if I win, you'll give me a ticket to one of your games, and I'll give you a ticket to one of my concerts.”

Sid opened his mouth to refuse, but Andrew went on, “You don't even have to use it—although I would prefer that if you can't make it, you give it away. Or you could sell it. But it would be better if you used it. After all,” he looked innocently at Sid, and Sid had only known this guy for an hour, but he could tell that look was a big lie, “it's much more sportsman like if we each go see the other. Isn't it?”

Ignoring the barely contained laughter of his teammates, Sid flailed, desperately trying to think of a way out of this.

“But,” he started weakly, “what if I hate it? I've never gone to anything like that before.”

 _Something_ passed across Andrew's face, but again, too quickly for Sid to process it.

Freddie the waiter came up just then and handed Andrew a plastic bill holder. Andrew opened it, signed, and put his card and his copy in his wallet. Still holding the wallet in one hand, he looked at Sid and said, rather quietly, “What if I hate your game? I've never gone to one before.”

Sid opened his mouth to protest the basic impossibility of anyone hating hockey, and then realized he was caught. Although, maybe. . . .

“How will I know that you actually won the contest?”

Andrew seemed truly taken aback for a second, and then he started laughing.

“Don't worry, Sidney; I wouldn't expect you to simply take my word for it. I'll make sure you get some proof. If I win. Which I will.”

And then he smiled: a very different smile than the ones he'd worn before. This smile spelled trouble, Sid was sure of it.

Andrew stood up, took a bill out of his wallet, slipped it into the folder, and gathered his things.

“Well, gentlemen: it's been a real pleasure.” Nodding to each of them, he started moving, stopping behind Geno to say something softly in Russian. Geno replied in turn, and Andrew smiled, said what even Sid knew was “Thank you” in Russian, and walked away. Sid followed him with his eyes, and noticed him clasping the waiter on the shoulder and exchanging a few words before he left the restaurant.

He turned back to the table, almost recoiling at the expressions he saw directed at him.

“What?” he asked defensively.

“Looks like you're going to the opera, Sid,” Nealer chortled.

“Fuck off. Come on; we need to settle up ourselves. It's almost time for the bus.”

He turned to call over the waiter.

“Can we have our checks please?”

Freddie looked confused. “Mr. Andrew took care of your meals, sir.”

“Oh. Uh, thank you. That was, uh, very nice of him.”

“Mr. Andrew is a very nice man.”

Sid turned back to the table, feeling a little foolish. No one said anything, but from the way Geno was shaking his head, a wide grin on his face, Sid figured he would, eventually. He shoved his chair back and stood up, took out his wallet and pulled out a twenty. He went to put his tip with Andrew's, and saw that Andrew had left a fifty.

“He's never going to win his stupid contest.” But Sid knew it for the weak retort it was.

 


	2. Chapter 2

A couple of weeks after the encounter in the coffee shop, Sid had managed to completely banish it from his mind. Almost. The preseason was nearly over, and he had no time at all for extraneous thoughts—or so he told himself firmly whenever recollections of a laughing face or bright, bright eyes slipped into his consciousness. Since the banishment technique had worked for him for nearly his entire life, he had no doubt that it would this time too. He just had to work a little harder at it: maybe try a different strategy. He was changing his clothes, getting ready to head home after morning skate, when he was hailed by Mario.

“Sid—Marie from the front office asked me to give you this.” He held out a FedEx envelope. “She thought it might be important.”

Sid took it and looked at the address, which meant nothing to him.

“I don't think I know anybody who lives in Cambridge,” he said, “and I'm sure I don't know anybody who works for . . . SCE. Whatever that is.”

“It's a technology company,” Mario said, “and rumored to be worth more than several large countries—this one included. Which is why Marie didn't think it was fan mail.”

Curious, Sid opened it—and found a small envelope, a CD-ROM in a clear plastic sleeve, and a hand-written note.

 

> _Sidney (or Captain Crosby, if you prefer),_
> 
> _The disc contains your proof, and the envelope your tickets. I sent two, figuring misery loves company. Do try to come, but if that's not possible, please give them to somebody worthy._
> 
> _According to your team's schedule, you have a home game the night after the concert. I'll accept a ticket to it, should one be available, whether you come see me or not. I find myself quite intrigued to see a game live._
> 
> _Congratulations on your season thus far._
> 
> _Best,_
> 
> _Andrew Singleton_

 

Sid reread the last two sentences, and found himself smiling.

“Good news, Sid?” Mario asked.

Shaking his head, Sid replied, “I'm not sure. But I think we have a new fan.” And then he remembered . . . and groaned. “Although I'm not sure if the rest of it is worth it.”

“The rest of . . . what?”

Sid held out the smaller envelope. “I have to . . . or well, I'm supposed to, go to this. It was kind of a challenge.”

“Did you win or lose?”

“I'm . . . not sure. Lose, maybe?”

Mario opened the envelope, and whistled.

“You lost, and in return you got tickets to this? What did the winner get?”

“Um . . . I don't really know. Something about bragging rights. Oh, and a ticket to our game the night after that. Which I have to arrange.”

Mario flicked the tickets against his forefinger a couple of times.

“I realize we're prejudiced, you and I, but even taking that into account, I don't think even we could consider that a fair exchange. According to Nathalie, this concert sold out in ten minutes. She very much wanted to go.”

Ten minutes? Sid squinted at Mario. “Really?” He hesitated. “Would you . . . um, do you think. . . ?” For some reason, he felt himself flushing.

Mario smiled, and clasped Sid's shoulder briefly. Handing the tickets back, he said, “Sid. If you are offering these to Nathalie and me, I would say no. If, however, you would like to escort Nathalie yourself, you may ask her. Just be prepared for effusions of joy.”

That would be nice; Sid loved Nathalie. He glanced at the tickets again, and then up at Mario. Shifting awkwardly, he said, “If you're sure you don't want to take her.”

Laughing, Mario said, “I am so very sure. If Nathalie had managed to get the tickets, I would have gone to make her happy. But here you have two tickets, and _you_ can make her happy, and fulfill your part of this at the same time.” He looked at his watch.

“Come. You have enough time to stop by and ask her. And while we go to our cars, you can tell me more about this . . . challenge.”

Glumly, Sid followed Mario out, trying to figure out how he could explain something he didn't really understand himself.

**********

Mario clearly found the story very funny, although he tried not to laugh too openly. And Nathalie was as ecstatic as Mario had promised, which made Sid feel glad. He liked getting hugs from Nathalie.

But then she had to hear the story too, and while she didn't laugh at all, she was definitely amused—particularly when she read the note. And then she asked him, “So what was the proof?”

Proof? Oh. “I don't know,” Sid confessed. He reached into the FedEx envelope, and held out the CD-ROM. “It's on here.”

She stood up decisively. “Let's see what it is.”

Obediently, he followed her into the study and sat down next to her as she put the disc into her laptop. She studied the window that opened up.

“There are two files on here,” she said, and then laughed. “One is called 'Proof for Sidney Part I,' and the other is called 'Corroborative Detail.'” She looked over at him. “Part I first, correct?”

Sid nodded, and she clicked on the file. Another window opened; it was a sound file evidently.

 

> This is Margaret Juntwait at Met Opera Radio on Sirius XM. Tonight, we're thrilled to have as our guest Andrew Singleton, who'll be appearing here later this season as Edgardo in _Lucia di Lammermoor_ , his first Donizetti role since his Met debut six years ago as Nemorino in _L'Elisir d'Amore_. Welcome, Andrew!
> 
> Thanks, Margaret! It's good to see you again; I'm happy to be back.
> 
> I'm sure our audience will be happy too. The last time you were on our program, we got quite a few letters, some of which demanded that we offer you a regular spot. Going after my job, Andrew?
> 
> [Laughter] Oh my God, no. I'd be terrible! I don't know how you do it. [Laughter]
> 
> By all reports, you've been very busy the last few months. I read wonderful things about your Almaviva in London . . .
> 
> Thanks very much!
> 
> . . . and you just finished, or are about to finish, a run of _L'Italiana in Algeri_ in Philadelphia. I've been told that the staging is somewhat controversial. . . .
> 
> Well, I don't know if controversial is exactly the right word, Margaret. Jules Brightman, the director, is known for trying new things. Sometimes they work better than others, but he always strives to achieve a consistent vision. One thing he tried—oh, do you mind if I go on about this for a bit?
> 
> Oh, not at all!
> 
> You know the first act finale? When the characters all start singing things like “Ding Ding” and “Bang Bang?” Well—that's how the words are usually translated, anyway. [Laughter] Anyway, Jules wanted to update the nonsense words. And I'll admit, I wasn't keen on it at first. But then it turned into this kind of contest among the singers: to see which of us could come up with the most outlandish sound—and manage to sing it at that breakneck speed!
> 
> And. . . ?
> 
> And I won! [Laughter] The first time I did it in rehearsal, the entire cast simply stared at me, as if they couldn't _believe_ the noise that had just come out of me. [Laughter] We did it again, and then everybody started howling! And Jules was laughing harder than any of us. That happened _every_ time we tried it! And finally, Jules said, 'Okay. It's not going to work, is it?' [Laughter] So we went back to the original. But you know, on opening night, we were all afraid to even _look_ at each other during the _stretta_ , in case we started laughing again!
> 
> It sounds like something out of the old Carol Burnett show!
> 
> Exactly! Who was it, Harvey . . . Korman, that's it, right?
> 
> I think so, yes. That's quite a story. Can you give us a sample of your sound?
> 
> Now?
> 
> Please!
> 
> Well—okay. [Laughter] Now, listeners aren't going to get the full effect, because I had a special face I used for this. Like this. [Pause]
> 
> [Laughter] That is precious!
> 
> Anyway: here goes.

 

Sid almost jumped when his laugh—sounding just as it did when he made the noise—came out of the speakers. Nathalie burst out into peals of laughter, looked over at him, and laughed even harder. She paused the playback.

“Sid, I'm sorry,” she said, covering her mouth with her hand, “but it sounds _just like you_!”

Sid thought that maybe he should be annoyed, but instead, he was actually a little pleased.

“Well, that's why he deserved to win, I guess,” he said. “Because he sounds like me.”

“Oh Sid,” Nathalie laughed again, shaking her head. “Only you. Let's hear the rest of it.”

 

> [Laughter] That's wonderful! What is that, a goose?
> 
> No, no, no! Well, yes, sort of. But no, not just any goose! This is a sound made only by _Branta canadensis hockey_.
> 
> By . . . what?
> 
> By the Canadian hockey goose!

 

At that, Sid burst out laughing himself. Nathalie had tears in her eyes, she was laughing so hard.

 

> The Canadian hockey goose?
> 
> Yes! It's rather rare. Elusive, too, and somewhat reclusive, or so I've been told.
> 
> But if it's . . . oh, you're putting us on!
> 
> [Laughter]
> 
> Aren't you?
> 
> [Laughter] You know, my parents came to opening night, and when we were having supper afterwards, I told them about the rare and distinguished Canadian hockey goose; my dad got so excited that he wanted to get on the next plane for Canada and try and find one! [Laughter]
> 
> There's no such thing as a Canadian hockey goose! There can't be! They don't exist! Do they?
> 
> Well, I don't think anyone knows for sure. But think, Margaret! Wouldn't it be wonderful if they did?

 

The clip ended; Nathalie and Sid sat there for a minute, both smiling, saying nothing, until Nathalie nudged Sid.

“Should we look at the other file?”

“Uh, I guess. Sure.” Actually, Sid was very curious.

The second file contained a link to the Opera Philadelphia website; Nathalie clicked on it, and a page came up, with a photograph captioned, “Act One Finale.” There were six or seven people dressed in costumes, and the third from the end was Andrew: with his hair messed up and his cheeks puffed out. And even though they looked nothing alike, Sid could actually see a resemblance.

And so could Nathalie, evidently, as she broke out in giggles. “Oh, Sid: it's almost uncanny!” Then, staring at the photograph a little more, she added, “He looks like he's having a lot of fun. They all do, actually.”

Sid peered a little closer, and decided that she was right.

“So: are you going to take me to the concert, Sid?”

Sid made up his mind. “Yeah. Let's go.”

“Good. I was so disappointed when I couldn't get tickets. And now I have even more reason to be excited about going.”

“Uh, why, exactly?”

Nathalie patted his arm. “Because he seems so nice. Don't you think?”

“Uh, I guess.”

After another couple of minutes, he left, heading home for his lunch and nap, idly wondering why he felt kind of warm. He hoped he wasn't getting sick.

**********

The day of the concert, Sid had to fend off three increasingly insistent invitations to go out that night. He tried to say as little as possible, but finally had to admit that he had plans. “With Nathalie,” he hurriedly added, which cut off the interested questions and lowered the raised brows very effectively; Sid made a mental note to remember that.

Sid didn't have a lot of experience with concerts, but he kind of figured that anything involving the Pittsburgh Symphony would be a lot less casual than the Lady Gaga concert he'd taken Geno to for his birthday. So he wore a suit, one of the ones that his mom had said was too good to wear on game days, and was pleased, if a little embarrassed, when Nathalie complimented him on how nice he looked.

“You look . . . uh, lovely, too,” he said, a bit awkwardly.

Nathalie took his arm as they walked from the parking garage towards Heinz Hall, and Sid was surprised at how many people were heading in the same direction.

“Is this stuff always so popular?” he asked.

“I think it's fair to say that you always draw a larger crowd,” Nathalie said, smiling, which, okay, made Sid feel really, really good. “But Andrew Singleton is perhaps the most popular tenor in America right now—maybe even the world.”

Sid gaped at her, and narrowly missed colliding into somebody's wheelchair. Flushing, he muttered an apology, and steered Nathalie into safety.

“Really?” he asked.

Nathalie rolled her eyes at him. “Yes, Sidney. Didn't you even Google him?”

“Uh, no,” Sid admitted. “Why would I? It's not like I needed to look up his stats. Wait: do tenors have stats?”

Giggling helplessly, Nathalie shook her head. “Not in the way you mean. But Sid, honestly! If you weren't curious, why are you even here tonight?”

Sometimes Sid wished that the people he felt close to wouldn't ask him questions that he didn't want to answer, but felt he had to, because, okay, they were asked by people he felt close to.

“I don't know,” he said. “I mean, I guess because he sent the tickets, and because you wanted to go, and because . . . well, because he challenged me, and because he won. With my laugh. Well, with the call of the Canadian hockey goose, anyway.” He still did not know why he found that funny rather than annoying.

He glanced over at Nathalie, and found her giving him a slightly quizzical look. “Any other reasons?”

Sid thought for a few seconds, and then said, more or less honestly, “Not that I'm aware of.”

Nathalie said nothing, but she patted his arm gently, which felt nice.

**********

The crowds increased the closer they got to the entrance. Some people were holding signs saying, “Tickets?” and Sid saw what had to be a scalper tucking away a fistful of money, which made him glad that he hadn't had to pay for their tickets, and also made him feel a little bad, since in all likelihood, those sign holders would enjoy the concert a lot more than he would.

They climbed the stairs, and eventually made their way through the lobby, which took a while, because a bunch of people greeted Nathalie (“From the Foundation,” Nathalie murmured). Sid put on his public face, smiled and shook hands as required, and tried not to squirm when the photographer from the society page (which, what?) asked the two of them to pose for a shot. Sid hoped that the picture didn't run, because if the guys saw it, they would give him no end of shit about it. But then he comforted himself with the thought that there was no way the guys ever looked at the society page; he didn't think he'd even known there was such a thing in their paper.

They finally made it into the hall itself, and were led to their seats—which were very close to the front, and which made Nathalie's eyebrows go up.

“These are incredible seats, Sid,” she murmured.

Sid shifted in his. “They could be a little more comfortable,” he muttered.

Nathalie laughed softly. “My mother always said that the discomfort was intentional, that you couldn't really appreciate the arts unless you suffered for it.” She giggled a little and then added, “And my father always said that she was only partially right; he claimed that the seats were uncomfortable so that all of the husbands in the audience couldn't fall asleep, so it was the _suffering_ that was intentional.”

Sid let out his honking laugh, which he quickly tried to stifle.

The lights dimmed and the concert began. The first thing was just the orchestra, so after about a minute, Sid passed the time thinking about the drills he'd done that morning. He dutifully applauded when everybody else did.

And then Andrew walked on, and the pandemonium would not, Sid had to admit, have been out of place at Consol—although he was very glad that he didn't ever have to bow. The clapping went on and on, and Andrew got kind of a goofy look on his face, like he was almost embarrassed, which Sid could totally relate to. But finally the noise died down, and after some silent communication between him and the orchestra leader . . . no, conductor, Sid corrected himself . . . the music started again, and after a while, Andrew began to sing.

Sid had thought that Andrew had a nice voice when he'd sung to Geno in the restaurant. But he simply wasn't prepared for how Andrew sang here; it was like the difference between skating a drill and skating in the last period of a championship game.

Sid had no idea what the words Andrew was singing meant; what he focused on was the way his voice _moved_. He tried to picture moving on the ice in time with his voice—and then he realized that he had to figure in the way the voice moved both with and against the other musicians. It was too complicated for a single play, or even a series of plays: it was like an entire period spun out in a few minutes, with Andrew on the ice for the whole time, spinning, and weaving, and even deking at times, in, out, and around the others. It was truly a team effort, and even though Sid had had the vague idea that the conductor of an orchestra was like the team captain, in this case at least, he seemed to be the coach, because Andrew definitely wore the C.

Sid had been a competitive athlete for most of his life. If there was one thing he recognized, it was someone who was in complete control of his game. And Andrew, he realized, was. Before tonight, Sid had had no idea the human voice could even do some of what Andrew was doing.

The applause at the end of the song was deafening, and Sid joined in enthusiastically.

**********

When the lights went up at the end of the first period, Sid blinked, and tried to reorient himself.

“Oh, Sid,” Nathalie breathed. “Isn't this wonderful?”

Sid had to agree. “I mean, I don't really understand what he's singing about. Sometimes, he seems to say the same thing over and over again. But . . .” he hesitated, “I don't know. Maybe this is stupid. But . . . maybe it doesn't matter what the words mean, since he can . . . ugh, I don't know what I'm trying to say.”

Nathalie patted his arm. “I think I know. The whole story is in his voice. If you know how to listen to it.”

“Maybe?” That wasn't it, exactly, but it was closer than Sid had come to explaining.

All of a sudden, a young man was leaning in towards them from the aisle. “Excuse me, sir. Ma'am. A note for you from Mr. Singleton.” He held out an envelope, which Sid took, murmuring his thanks.

He opened it, started to read, and immediately snorted. Nathalie peered at it, and began laughing.

 

> _If you can stand the smell of sweat, please come backstage for a glass of wine._

 

“I think we can handle it, Sid, don't you?” Nathalie said, standing. “And I'd love a glass of wine.”

**********

The young man led them through a maze of corridors that were crowded with people moving in every direction. Finally, he tapped on a door, and when a voice inside responded, he opened the door and ushered Sid and Nathalie in.

Andrew poked his head out from what was probably the bathroom.

“God, you two are fast; I thought I'd be ready before you got here. Help yourselves to the wine; I'll be quick.” He gestured, and disappeared.

Sid picked up the corkscrew and eyed it dubiously.

“Let me, Sid.”

Sid gratefully handed it over. “I still haven't recovered from the Thanksgiving cork massacre of 2007.”

Nathalie picked up the bottle, and made a _moue_ of surprise. “Well, the last thing we need is a reenactment of that debacle on a bottle like this.” She showed the label to Sid, who dutifully looked at it, and then shrugged.

“Am I supposed to know what that means?”

“How you can have lived with us all those years and still remain a philistine, I cannot imagine.” She deftly opened the bottle. While she was doing so, an audible “Shit!” came from the bathroom. After a moment, the door opened and Andrew stuck his head out.

“Sidney . . . oh, please don't wait for me; drink up. Sidney, do me a favor? Hand me the undershirt that's over there?”

“Uh, okay.” Sid picked it up and crossed the room. Andrew took it with a murmured “Thanks,” and turned back into the bathroom; it was very well-lit and had a large mirror over the sink, which revealed that Andrew Singleton was in _very_ good shape, even by hockey player standards: he didn't have the bulk, but he had abs that went on for days.

Sid colored slightly as his eyes met Andrew's in the mirror. Andrew's mouth twitched, but he didn't say anything, and Sid moved away, picked up his glass of wine, and took a swallow.

Nathalie, of course, had missed none of this, and was smiling into her own glass.

After a minute or so, Andrew emerged from the bathroom, fastening his cuff links.

“There. I'm sorry for keeping you waiting. Let me just. . . .” He picked up what turned out to be his bow tie, and without even looking in the mirror, tied it expertly, which, frankly, Sid found totally unnatural.

“May I pour you some wine, Andrew?” Nathalie asked. “It's very, very good.”

“Oh, no thanks. I don't really like red wine, to be honest. But I'm glad you like it; I stole the bottle from my parents, so I couldn't tell you even if it was supposed to be good or not.”

Nathalie looked slightly scandalized, but was too polite to say anything.

“So. Sidney. Aren't you going to introduce us?”

Sid flushed. “Uh. Sorry. This is Nathalie Lemieux.” He made an awkward gesture. “And, obviously, Nathalie knows who you are.”

Andrew grinned. “Having your name on the program does make things easier. Although maybe not as easy as having it on your sweater.”

He turned to Nathalie, and said something polite and welcoming, and as she responded, Sid tried to figure out why the fact that Andrew had said “sweater” instead of “jersey” made him feel so satisfied. He absently took another swallow of wine, and then started when he saw the others looking at him expectantly.

“Sorry. I was just . . . thinking. Um. Did you ask me something?”

Andrew laughed. “Nothing important. I was just wondering if you'd told Nathalie how we met.”

“I think so?” And he couldn't help but join in when they started laughing.

“Sid and I listened to your interview together,” Nathalie said, with a mischievous look on her face.

Andrew colored slightly. “Oh, God! I do go on sometimes.” Turning to Sid, he said, “I hope you weren't too upset. By the whole hockey goose thing, I mean.”

“Well, I would have been, if you hadn't specifically said it was a _Canadian_ hockey goose.”

Andrew laughed delightedly. “Oh, well then! You know, _Branta canadensis_ is a black goose. So clearly, the hockey goose has to be black and gold.” Sid smiled, liking that idea a lot; Nathalie just rolled her eyes.

“I do hope you're enjoying the program, Nathalie,” Andrew said, as he poured himself a glass of water from a half-empty pitcher.

“Oh, very much so. More even than I had imagined I would.”

Andrew looked down for a second, and Sid thought he looked both pleased and awkward. “That's very kind of you to say.” He drank some more water, and then, with a sidelong look, asked, “And you, Sidney? Is it as horrible and boring as you thought it would be? Or are you enjoying yourself?”

“No.” Andrew flinched, and Sid thought, “Fuck.” “I mean, no to the horrible, boring part. And yes to the enjoying myself part. Mostly. I like it when you're singing. When it's just the orchestra, I'm not as interested. Uh, sorry.”

Andrew stared at him for a second and then grinned. “Don't apologize. I'm kind of a fan of honesty; it's often rather rare around here. And I'm very pleased you liked my performance.” He snapped his fingers and said, “And that reminds me.” He got up, went over to his messenger bag, and took out something, which he then handed to Sid. It was a CD.

“Would you do me a favor and give this to Evgeni?”

“Uh, sure.” Sid looked curiously at it, but the only things written on it were in Russian, so he . . . had no idea. He looked back up at Andrew, who seemed a little embarrassed.

“It's really nothing at all. Just some Russian songs I thought he might like hearing. Sometimes I record myself during practice sessions, so I can figure out what I need to work on more. Warn him, though, that the sound quality isn't the best.”

“I don't think he'll care,” Sid said honestly. “It's, uh, really thoughtful.”

Andrew brushed this off—he definitely was embarrassed—and offered them both more wine, refilling his tumbler at the same time. Sid hoped Andrew remembered to pee before he went back on stage; he hadn't made that mistake since he was about fourteen, but he still remembered how it had felt.

They had what even Sid considered a lively conversation—well, Andrew and Nathalie did, mostly, but Sid felt relaxed enough to join in sometimes. Andrew asked Nathalie about her family—and demanded pictures—and since Sid liked Nathalie's family, that was nice. That Sid himself was in a couple of the pictures led to a little gentle teasing by Nathalie, which was less nice, but still okay. Andrew had just turned to Sid and opened his mouth when someone rapped on the door.

“Five minutes, Andrew.”

Andrew looked surprised. “So soon? Well. To be continued, I guess.” He brushed his hands on his thighs and stood up. “Can you find your own way back?”

“If you want us to hear any of the second part, I'd appreciate a guide,” Nathalie said. She eyed Sid sideways. “Some of us get lost easily.”

“Nathalie,” Sid whined. “It was only that one time.”

Nathalie just looked at him, until Sid muttered, “Okay, fine. It was more than once.” He could feel his face flaming. When Andrew stopped laughing, he clapped Sid on the shoulder.

“Don't worry about it, Sidney. I can't read a map to save my soul; I always think west is to my left.” He opened the door, and peered out. “Let me see who's around.”

It only took Andrew a few seconds to come back with the same guy as before in tow.

“Richard here will take you back.” He smiled at Nathalie. “It was lovely meeting you.” He held out his hand to Sid and shook it. “I hope both of you enjoy the second half.” He paused, and then said, grinning widely, “Make sure you stick around for the encores.”

“Oh, we will,” Nathalie promised.

Andrew stepped back so Nathalie could leave the room, and Sid took one step to follow her, stopped, and took a deep breath.

“Um, well. So we haven't really talked yet about the game you're coming to. So we should do that?”

“Oh, we definitely should. I'm looking forward to it. But I don't think we have the time right now.”

“Uh, probably not.” Sid looked down at his shoes, took another deep breath, and said, “Are you doing anything after the show?” He deliberately didn't look her way, but he could _feel_ Nathalie staring at him.

“Uh . . . no. Not really.” Then that disarming grin. “Why? Have anything in mind?”

“Maybe . . . I don't know. We could get something to eat?”

Sid absolutely could not believe that those words had come out of his mouth—and stealing a quick glance at Natalie, neither could she, judging from her expression; her eyebrows seemed about to go into orbit. But Andrew only said, “Well, stuffing my face is definitely on my agenda; I'd very much like to accept. The only thing is: it's going to take me a while to get out of here. There's always a bunch of people who want to meet me. So . . .” he looked beyond Nathalie, and grimaced; Sid saw somebody making really agitated gestures at him.

“You need to get to your seats. Why don't you come back here afterwards? Enjoy some more wine, and we'll see if we can't make this work. But please: if it gets too late, just go home. Don't let me keep you waiting for hours.” He grinned again. “But one way or another, I'll see you soon, Sidney. And you too, I hope, Nathalie.”

“Of course,” Nathalie said warmly, while Sid just nodded. Andrew waved, and then shut the door, and Richard started leading them back to their seats. When they got there, pretty much everybody was already re-seated, and the lights were going down, so Nathalie didn't have time to say anything, even though Sid could tell she wanted to.

The second half of the concert was more of the same. Sid was bored when it was just the music, and . . . not bored when Andrew was singing. Then he was finished, and he walked off the stage with the conductor, and the audience clapped and clapped until they walked back on again. And then they clapped even more.

Nathalie leaned over and whispered, “Now for the encores.”

After the first one, which was nice and lively (Sid could imagine doing drills to it), they walked off and then came back again, which seemed a little dumb, but whatever. And then, when the audience had stopped clapping and yelling (they were a lot rowdier than Sid had expected, but of course, nothing like he was used to), Andrew started talking.

“Those of you who have been to one of my concerts before might know that I make it a practice—which, despite what my mother says, is _not_ a superstitious ritual—of doing something a little different for my second encore. Sometimes I do an aria from an opera I haven't sung on stage yet—testing the waters, I suppose—and sometimes I sing part of a role that I might never do on stage.

“What I'm going to do now is almost certainly more of the second variety. I'm going to sing something from an opera that even non-fans have heard of.” Everybody laughed, and Andrew continued, “But first, I would like to tell you why I chose this particular aria. Last month, I was having breakfast in a hotel in Philadelphia . . .”

Sid felt himself lean forward a little.

“. . . and somebody presented me with a very large . . . well, certainly not a blossom! A floral tribute, if you will—that was actually about as tall as I am.”

He grinned widely as the audience laughed.

“Anyway, I had a great time at that breakfast—really, it was a lot of fun—and in thinking about it afterwards, I was reminded of this aria. Well, not the whole aria, actually: just the first line. So I dug it out and looked it over. It's really nothing that I can see myself doing on stage—to be honest, I don't think I have the voice for the whole role—but I truly enjoyed learning this part of it. I hope you enjoy it too.”

Everybody clapped, and then the orchestra started. Andrew took one step forward, looked directly at Sid, and started to sing:

 

> _La fleur que tu m'avais jetée,_
> 
> _Dans ma prison m'était restée._

 

He looked away after he'd sung the first line, but that was enough. Sid's French had been good enough to translate the beginning, and that was enough too; he sat there, feeling a whole bunch of things inside: relieved that there hadn't been anything about geese; pleased that Andrew had enjoyed the breakfast enough to be thinking about it later on; kind of tickled because clearly, this was meant to be a private joke between them; and warm because . . . well, actually, Sid didn't know why he felt warm.

Or maybe he did.

**********

When the concert was over (the final encore had been “Amazing Grace,” which Andrew had sung without the orchestra, and Sid had gotten shivers as Andrew's voice seemed to fill every inch of the hall), Sid and Nathalie again followed Richard backstage to Andrew's dressing room.

“I think I'll take Andrew up on his offer of more wine,” Nathalie remarked as they entered.

Sid walked over to the table and filled the glasses; it was easy to tell which was Nathalie's, since it had her lipstick on it. He sat down next to her, and when she lifted her glass to him, he clinked it. And then he braced himself for what he guessed was coming.

“Well. This has been truly a memorable night.” Nathalie took another sip. “Andrew's voice . . . it's even better than on recordings, which I didn't think was possible.”

Sid made a noise that he hoped signified agreement; since he'd never heard any, he figured he'd just take Nathalie's word for it. Recordings, though. . . . He patted his pocket to make sure he still had the CD. Nathalie tracked the movement and smiled.

“It was so thoughtful of him to make that disc for Geno.”

That, Sid could agree with, and did.

“He's a nice guy. Did I tell you he bought the four of us our breakfasts that day?”

“No, I don't think you mentioned it.” Nathalie paused, and Sid thought, “Here it comes.”

“Sid. I'm sorry if I'm being rude, but I have to say, you are not acting exactly like yourself.”

Sid tried to smile, to make it a joke. “Is that a bad thing?” But Nathalie knew him too well.

“No. Of course not. You've done nothing wrong. It's just that. . . .” She waved her hand. “All of this. Tonight. You hardly ever go out, except with the guys. I didn't think you liked classical music. . . .”

“I don't,” Sid said. “Well, not really.”

“And I know you don't typically ask people—particularly people you don't know very well—out to dinner, especially when it will be somewhere public. So . . . is there . . . what is going on?”

Sid decided to try aggrieved. “I get so much crap, Nathalie, about being boring. About spending too much time alone.” He decided not to add “for thinking about nothing but hockey” to the list, because while that was true, too, there was certainly nothing wrong with it. Except for the fact that even other hockey players gave him total shit for it. “So, is it bad that I decided to do something different for once?”

Shaking her head, Nathalie said, “Of course not. And as I just said, you've done nothing wrong.” She raised her forefinger. “Although you might want to think about the fact that you asked if you were bad twice in as many minutes.”

Fuck.

“But when someone who doesn't like change (and don't even try to deny _that_ , Sid!) acts uncharacteristically, then questions arise.”

“Questions?” Sid squirmed.

“Questions. Such as: are you . . . interested in Andrew?”

If almost anybody else had asked him that, he would have just said, “Fuck off.” But this was Nathalie, so that wasn't an option. Not to mention the fact that Nathalie knew him better than his own mother did, in any number of ways. As her question proved. He opened his mouth, hesitated, and then just went with the truth. “I don't know. Maybe?”

Nathalie didn't say anything, so after a few seconds, Sid went on. “I think it's . . . maybe it's too early to say yes or no. I think he's a nice guy. And he's funny. Nealer called him Mr. Happy or something. He does smile a lot. He's got a nice smile, I guess.” Sid tried to stop babbling by imagining he was in a press scrum, but it seemed his mouth had a mind of its own tonight, so thank fuck there were no cameras around. Plus, this was _Nathalie_. “I guess there has to be something there. I mean, he's not a hockey player. He doesn't even know the basics about hockey.” Even Sid could hear the injured tone in his voice. “And so I don't really have any idea what's going on. I mean, the way we met, the whole thing . . . I _invited_ him to sit with us at breakfast. I thought Flower was going to check me for fever.

“I know I'm acting weird. Well, weird for me. And it was bad enough before. But now? After tonight, I mean. You know, the concert?” He shivered a little. “Whatever it is I'm feeling, it's worse now. The only thing I can tell you is . . . and this is going to sound completely lame . . . but his voice . . . when he sings, his voice sounds like hockey feels to me. Inside.”

Nathalie regarded him silently for a few seconds, and then smiled. “Well. Now, I think I begin to understand. That is very high praise for you.” She sipped some more wine, and Sid . . . didn't sip.

Just then, there was a rap on the door, which opened immediately; an unknown man poked his head in and said, “Andrew asked me to tell you that. . . .” His voice trailed off as he actually looked at them; clearly, he recognized Sid. He opened his mouth again, then shook his head and said, “Andrew asked me to let you know that he's very sorry, but he's going to be tied up for at least an hour, and maybe it would be better if you rescheduled your dinner.”

Nathalie put her glass down on the table deliberately and stood up.

“It's already getting late, Sid. I don't think I'm up for such a long evening tonight. You should wait for Andrew; I'll just take a taxi home.”

Sid stood up too. “No. No taxi. I'll take you home. We can do this later.”

“Sid, no.”

“Nathalie.” They stared at each other. “I'm taking you home.” He put his most stubborn, most Canadian look on his face. Nathalie rolled her eyes, but gave in. Sid nodded in satisfaction.

“Let me just leave Andrew a note.” He walked over to the desk, picked up a pen, and started writing. He read it over when he'd finished; good enough, he thought. He ripped the page off the pad, folded it, and then turned to the man and said, “Should I leave this for him here, or would it be better if you gave it to him? I want to make sure he gets it.”

“I'll give it to him. He'll want to know that you're not waiting.” His smile was a little crooked. “Andrew worries a lot about keeping people waiting.”

Sid nodded, because of course he did. “At least an hour, you said?”

“At least. There must be two hundred people lined up.” He grimaced, and Sid completely understood. “Don't worry; I'll give it to him right now.”

He handed the man the note, thanked him, took a step towards the door, and then sighed. “And could you show us how to get out of here?”

**********

About 45 minutes after Sid had dropped Nathalie off (a ride that had been mercifully free of pointed questions) and had shrugged off her effusive thanks (he hadn't paid for the tickets, after all; plus, this was _Nathalie_ ), his phone buzzed.

 

> _Finally finished. Still want to have dinner?_

 

Sid didn't hesitate for more than a few seconds.

 

> _Sure. I'm in my car across the street._

 


	3. Chapter 3

Although Geno's car was already in the lot when Sid arrived, a little later than usual, for morning skate the next day, Geno wasn't in the locker room, so Sid couldn't give him the CD right away. He placed it carefully with his things and got ready, looking around every so often, but he was already on the ice when Geno hurried out.

“Sorry,” he said. “Trainers want to check on knee.”

Sid nodded, but they got swept up in practice before he could say anything other than “Things okay?” and get a thumbs up in return. After they were finished, though, and were streaming back into the locker room, Sid tugged on Geno's arm.

“Come over here; I have something for you.”

Geno complied. “Not my birthday, Sid. Why you buy me present?”

“I didn't buy you anything, Geno; it's not from me. I'm just delivering it.” He handed the CD over, and watched as Geno noted the Cyrillic letters, his eyebrows going higher and higher.

“This from . . . Andy, no?”

“Andrew,” Sid corrected. “He made it for you.”

“Make? For me?” Geno sounded a little incredulous, so Sid nodded.

“That's what he said. He hopes you like it—oh, and he said that the sound on some of them isn't great. I don't know what that means, exactly.”

“I'm sure is fine,” Geno said, turning the CD back to front to back again. “Is so nice of him.”

Sid nodded again. “He's coming to the game tonight.”

Geno's mouth firmed. “He at game, we win for him. Best way to thank him, first game he ever see a win.”

Sid kind of felt that way too.

Nealer wandered over just then.

“What's that, G?” he said, trying to grab it.

“Is CD of Russian songs,” Geno said, successfully fending him off. “Made for me by Andrew. You know, singer we had breakfast with?”

“Oh, yeah. Mr. Happy. What, did he mail it to you?”

“No, he give to Sid to deliver.” Then Geno frowned. “How he get it to you, Sid?”

Sid had prepared for that question. “Nathalie and I went to his concert last night. She wanted to go, and Mario didn't.” As far as he was concerned, that was enough, so he turned towards his locker and started changing.

Geno must have recognized the signs, because he yanked Nealer away, saying, “Better on phone or iPod? You help me put on, Lazy,” when Sid knew for a fact that Geno already could do that. Unlike Sid.

Sid was heading towards his car when Mario hailed him.

“Thanks for taking Nathalie to the concert last night. She raved about it all during breakfast.”

“I'm glad she had a good time.”

“And you? Did you enjoy it?”

Sid shifted. “It wasn't like anything I'd ever gone to before. But yeah, I did.”

Mario smiled at him. “Good. Nathalie said the singer . . . what's his name again?”

“Singleton. Andrew Singleton.”

“That's right. He invited you back stage.”

Sid nodded, wondering what else Nathalie had told him. “It was very crowded. We have better space here.”

“Good to know, Kid,” Mario laughed. “She also said he was going to come to a game.”

“He is.” And Sid couldn't help but feel excited. “He's coming tonight, in fact; I just arranged it.”

“Really? Good, good.” Mario pursed his lips. “Will he be sitting in the box?”

Sid stared at him. “Uh, no. But it's a good seat.”

“He should sit in the box,” Mario said firmly. “I would like to thank him for his courtesy to Nathalie.”

Oh. Sid hadn't considered that. “I can change it.” He glanced at his watch, but Mario clapped him on the shoulder.

“I'll take care of it. You head out. Game day.”

“Game day,” Sid repeated.

Mario took one step, and then said, “Oh, and Sid? Nice picture of you and Nathalie. I think Jen from PR put it on the official Twitter.”

Sid really had no idea how Twitter worked. “Uh, that's . . . good?” Except that most of the guys paid attention to Twitter, so no doubt he'd hear about it later.

“So I'm told.” With a wave, Mario went towards the offices, and Sid went to his car. Where he debated with himself for a minute, and then pulled out his phone.

> _Tkt waiting, Mario upgraded to VIP box. That OK?_

As he was walking into his house, his phone buzzed.

> _It's fine. I hope I don't embarrass you with my ignorance._

Sid considered that possibility, shrugged, and typed,

> _We will fix._

By the time he'd reached the kitchen, he'd gotten a reply:

> _Looking forward to it._

Sid was still smiling when he got ready for his nap.

**********

They won the game that night, which of course always made Sid happy, but especially tonight. He made the first goal barely three minutes in, and the second goal was made by a rookie call-up from Wilkes-Barre, who hadn't stopped smiling since. Sid would have congratulated him anyway, of course, but made a point of doing it on the ice, where it had a good chance of being picked up on camera. Geno made two goals, minutes apart, in the second, and Sid scored once more near the end of the third. As he and Geno left the ice, he bumped shoulders and said in a low tone, “What do you think?”

Geno understood, of course. He looked around, saw nobody else in earshot, and said, “He young. Maybe need boost. I'm no think he stay up without more confidence.”

Sid had to agree. And whether he should stay up or not was not decided, at least in Sid's mind. Filling in for injuries was one thing, but . . . well, whatever. “You were on fire tonight, Geno.”

Geno grinned widely. “I listen to Russian songs before nap, and in car before game. Of course I play good tonight!”

“Of course,” Sid laughed. And he wasn't at all surprised when Geno suggested (insisted) that Sid go out with the team that night. And he certainly wasn't surprised—since he'd been counting on it—when Geno also suggested (insisted) that he invite Andrew to go with them.

What he was surprised by was the fact that Mario had already brought him down, and he was actually talking with Flower and some of the others. In French. Which turned into Russian—breathless Russian—when Geno, spying him, barreled his way over and crushed him in one of his infamous bear hugs.

Sid really wanted to say hello—and find out what he'd thought of the game, which was more important—but he also didn't want to interrupt Geno, so he busied himself at his stall, starting his pre- post-game routine, but glancing over every so often.

A couple of times, his eyes met Andrew's, who smiled.

Eventually, Andrew made his way over.

“Hi,” he said. “Congratulations on the win. Sorry it took me a while to get over here; Evgeni can be . . . uh, insistent.”

Sid laughed. “Hi. And thanks. And, uh, you're not kidding.” He rolled his eyes, which made Andrew laugh.

“Did you enjoy the game?”

“Oh, yeah—I did.” Andrew looked around, and lowered his voice a little. “I'll be honest: I think I would have enjoyed it more if I had a better sense of what to look for, you know? Or exactly why everybody started cheering? I mean, you did explain a fair amount last night, but I didn't feel as if I could exactly ask questions up there.”

Sid considered that, and winced a little. “Probably not.”

“Well, I imagine I'll pick things up, the more I watch. But everything happens so fast.”

True. “Uh, maybe we could, um, watch one that's on tape. I could stop it and explain.”

“I'd like that,” Andrew said honestly. “But . . . wouldn't that be boring for you?”

Sid shook his head. “No. I review games all the time.”

“Your own, or others?”

“Both.”

Andrew still looked unconvinced, so Sid said, “Really. I mean it. And, uh, just so you know: I wouldn't offer if I didn't mean it. You could ask anyone here, and they'd tell you that. Although, I kind of hope you won't. Ask anyone, I mean.”

Chuckling a little, Andrew said, “Understood. And I accept. The next time we're in the same city, if you have the time, we should do it.”

Good. “Good.” After a few seconds, Sid said, trying for casual, “So, when will you be back here?”

“Not for a while,” Andrew said, the regret plain in his voice.

Sid could feel himself frown.

“But,” Andrew said, “I'm appearing with the Pittsburgh Opera in November, so I'll be around quite a bit. And they may even want me in a couple of times before rehearsals start; most places do.”

“Well, we should do it as soon as we can. You don't want to lose your momentum,” Sid said seriously.

“Agreed,” Andrew said, looking like he wanted to laugh.

“What's so funny?”

“Oh, nothing really.” But since Andrew started laughing, Sid figured that was a lie. He looked skeptically at Andrew, until Andrew said, “Oh, it's only that my mother would laugh herself sick at the idea of me losing my momentum. She used to call me her little juggernaut. Her stubborn little juggernaut, at that. Once I get my mind set on something, it takes an act of God to divert me. Which is part of the reason why I made my professional debut when I was twenty. Really, the only person I know who's less likely to lose momentum is my father, who makes me look I'm moving in slow motion.” He shook his head ruefully. “Sometimes, I don't know how Mom's managed to resist picking up an ax and putting us out of her misery.”

Sid burst out laughing—his full laugh, which of course drew attention. Geno rolled his eyes tolerantly, and Nealer, of course, couldn't resist coming over to chirp Sid. Sid ignored him, but Andrew put his hand on Nealer's arm, and said, “Excuse me?”

Nealer, confused, said, “What?”

“What did you just call me?” Andrew's voice was almost menacing, and he had the most serious look on his face that Sid had ever seen. Sid had no idea what was going on, and even Geno was moving closer, looking concerned.

“Uh, Mr. Happy?”

Andrew drew a deep breath. Sid got ready to jump between them.

“Is that your way of saying, James, that I'm a prick? Because that's what you just called me.”

Andrew lasted all of five seconds before he burst out laughing at the sputters and the confused “What's?” and “No's!” coming out of Nealer's mouth. When Nealer figured out what was going on, he reacted like any hockey player would: he shoved Andrew. And Andrew, still laughing, shoved him back. Geno beamed approvingly at both of them, and Sid, a wide grin on his own face, found himself thinking, idiotically, “And he can chirp, too!”

**********

When Andrew had finished wiping the tears of laughter from his eyes—which took a while because the whole incident had drawn more than a little attention, and when Nealer shouted that “No one's dick is Mr. Happy,” Andrew shot back, “Well, I guess you just don't know how to treat yours, then,” which set Nealer, and everybody else in earshot, off—he shook his head, and said, “Oh my God, James. I'm sorry. Really, I am, but I couldn't resist. I have an incredibly juvenile sense of humor; please don't hold it against me.”

Nealer, of course, beamed, and calling Andrew a dumbass, bumped shoulders with him, and Andrew returned the gesture. Then Nealer said, “Dude, you should totally come out with us tonight. Shouldn't he, G? Sid?”

“He come,” Geno said firmly. Which was nice.

But Andrew looked at his watch, and shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, guys, but I really shouldn't. I have an early flight out tomorrow morning.”

Geno opened his mouth—to protest, Sid figured—but Sid spoke up first. “Come out for one drink. That's all I'm staying for,” (this with a firm look at Geno), “and I'll drop you at your hotel.”

Andrew hesitated, but then shrugged. “Oh, why not? Okay, thanks.” He smiled a little. “After all, I guess I should celebrate losing my hockey cherry.”

Sid choked, Nealer hooted, and Geno looked puzzled—until Andrew said something in Russian that had him guffawing.

Sid started in on his post-game routine in earnest, not thinking of the phrase “hockey cherry” more than three or four times.

**********

Andrew insisted on buying the first round against Sid's protests (“Hey, you guys won, and besides, you got me the ticket.” Unable to argue against truth, Sid gave in), and everybody had settled down to a nice re-hash of the game, which Andrew seemed mostly to follow. He made no secret of his inexperience, but his questions clearly indicated that he'd been paying close attention, which was gratifying.

Then, of course, everything went south, because the call-up from Wilkes-Barre decided to refer to the losing team as “cocksuckers.” Andrew's spine went rigid. Sid immediately put on his captain's face, but before he could say anything, Andrew, after darting a quick glance around the table, turned to the rookie.

“I wonder what kind of vodka they have here,” he said, rising to his feet. “Let's go check it out.” And hooking his hand under the rookie's armpit, he half-lifted, half-pulled him to his feet. The rookie had time for one started glance before he was tugged forcibly across the room.

Everybody at the table watched as Andrew stopped short, spun the rookie around, and started talking. They were too far away to hear, but not so far that they couldn't see the rookie start to protest—and then be cut off as Andrew leaned in a little closer, speaking even more intensely. And nobody missed the fact that the rookie's face went white, and then red, before he turned abruptly and gracelessly strode away. Nor did they miss seeing Andrew close his eyes and take a couple of deep breaths, before he unclenched his fists and walked back to the table.

Sliding back into his seat, he said, “Sorry about that.”

“Don't apologize,” Sid said firmly, mentally consigning the call-up to oblivion in Wilkes-Barre, or further away, if he could manage it.

“Not a fan of trash talk, eh?” said Flower into the rather uncomfortable silence.

Andrew looked at him, with a wry twist to his lips. “Actually, I am. But usually I like there to be some thought behind it. And I confess that I have zero tolerance for the kind of knee-jerk homophobic comment we just heard. Especially from. . . .” he cut himself off, shook his head, and downed half of his drink. Then he slumped in his chair, and muttered a string of what even Sid knew were French curses. He'd never heard that particular combination before, but it must have been choice, because Flower actually sprayed a mouthful of beer across the table, looking half-amused and half-scandalized.

“I guess you are a fan at that,” he said; “even _I_ don't say things like that!” which did a lot to dissipate any residual tension.

Ignoring requests for a translation, Andrew finished his drink, turned to Geno, and said, “Evgeni. How about we have some vodka, for real?” Geno laughed, called out something triumphant sounding in Russian, and headed for the bar. Andrew shook his head, and leaned towards Sid.

“So much for my one drink. You go home if you want; I'll take a cab.”

There was no way Sid was leaving now. “I can stay.” He sighed then, a little. “Geno probably would have talked me into staying out longer anyway. He always does.”

“That's the funny thing about Russians,” Andrew confided. “They all do the imperative very, very well.”

Sid half-snorted. “I guess the only appropriate thing to say here is ' _Da_.'”

Andrew laughed delightedly, and Sid mentally awarded himself a point. Then Andrew stiffened again; Sid looked around and saw the call-up, a resolute look on his face, approaching. He said to Andrew, “You don't have to—” but Andrew cut him off.

“Yes, I do. Sidney, please: let me handle this.”

“I'm sorry,” the call-up said bluntly, trying to simultaneously look Andrew in the eyes—and avoid the stony glare being directed at him by Sid—and, Sid noted with a little surprise, from one or two of the others. “I shouldn't have said what I did.”

“No, you shouldn't have,” Andrew said flatly.

After biting his lip, the call-up said, “This is not an excuse. But so much shit is said on the ice, you don't think about it as words. It's just . . . kind of habit. You score, you say something. You get boarded, you say something. And I knew, playing at this level, that things are different. But,” he shifted awkwardly, “I guess I was so full of myself, for making that goal, that I forgot. Like I forgot that obviously, I'm not on the ice now. So: I'm sorry.”

Andrew looked directly at him for a few seconds, and then smiled. “I accept your apology. And here's one from me. I said some things I shouldn't have, because what you said made me mad. I have a filthy temper, and I took it out on you. So, I apologize. Sincerely.” He stood up, and held out his hand, which was accepted—gratefully, if Sid was any kind of judge, and sometimes he was.

Just then, Geno appeared with a tray of shots—vodka, presumably. Andrew reached over, picked up two of the glasses, and handed one to the rookie.

“Come on—let's drink to your goal, and forget the rest.” He held up his glass, and they clinked. The rookie gasped a little, but Andrew swallowed his shot expertly, and then turned back to Geno. He looked at the tray, and then at Geno, a puzzled look on his own face.

“But Evgeni: why didn't you get enough for everybody?” And picking up two more of the glasses, he and the rookie downed those too, while Geno howled something in Russian that sounded vaguely encouraging, and Sid resigned himself to a long evening.

**********

But it was not, in fact, all that long. Andrew dragged the rookie away to the bar for more drinks—and for what looked like a heavy, albeit brief, conversation. When they returned to the table, the rookie was blushing bright red, but was laughing almost helplessly. Andrew dropped down next to Sid and handed him a glass filled with . . . something green. Holding up its twin, he said, “And here's to your two goals, Captain Crosby.”

“I like the sentiment, but . . . what is this?”

“Something soothing. I think you'll like it.”

Sid sipped cautiously . . . and then more deeply. “This is good,” he declared.

“Glad you like it,” Andrew smiled. He took a swallow of his own, and then put his glass down. “Christ on a crutch, I am going to hate myself tomorrow. Probably.” He made a face. “I hate flying most of the time anyway, but a 6 AM flight with a hangover? Ugh.”

“You could always leave later on,” Sid suggested.

Andrew shook his head decisively. “No, I can't. I was supposed to be back home today, but I changed my flight so I could come to your game. I have a lot to do tomorrow, so I need to get back as early as I can.” He eyed Sid sideways. “And for the record: I don't for a second regret changing my flight, and coming to the game. I'm really glad that I did. It's just that I can't neglect my practice too much; bad things happen when I ignore my schedule.”

“As I think almost everybody at this table would agree, you're preaching to the choir here,” Sid said dryly, taking another swallow.

Andrew laughed, and raised his own glass. “Well, here's to us, then: a choir of two.” They clinked. A companionable silence settled between them, as they observed the others. Sid didn't mind silence—in fact, he often preferred it—but they sometimes felt awkward. This one didn't. After a while, though, Andrew sighed.

“I think I already know the answer to this question, Sidney—at least, I hope I do—but I'm going to ask it anyway: is my little display earlier going to be a problem?”

“Why would it be?”

Andrew rolled his eyes. “Come on, Sidney. You know as well as I do that I essentially just outed myself to you and your teammates. Is that going to get in the way here?”

“Why would it?” Sid was genuinely curious. For more than one reason.

Andrew shrugged. “I don't know. Obviously, I don't think it should. And,” he eyed Sidney slantwise, “honestly, I didn't think it would. Not with you and Evgeni. And probably not with James; I don't have a good enough sense of Marc-André to say for sure—he's a bit of a dark horse. But there's people at this table I'd never met before tonight. And . . . let's face it: I didn't really think it through. I was too mad, so before I knew what I was doing, I was dragging him across the room.” He bit his lip. “I meant what I said, you know: I have a filthy temper. I try very, very hard not to let it out, but sometimes, I'm . . . less than successful.”

“You're human . . . as least, I assume you are,” Sid said. Andrew rolled his eyes again, but his lips twitched, and Sid continued, “I have a bad temper, too. I'm kind of ashamed to admit it, but sometimes I throw actual tantrums. Not so much anymore, but most people at this table have seen me at my worst.” He looked directly at Andrew. “And just so we're clear: the answer to your question is no.”

After a moment, Andrew smiled. “Good.”

“Can I ask you a question? Or, maybe, two questions?”

“Sure.”

Sid looked around, and then leaned a little closer. “What did you say to him? We couldn't hear, but we could for sure see.”

Andrew let out an embarrassed laugh.

“You really want to know?”

Sid nodded.

Andrew took another swallow of his drink, and then said, “Well, first I told him that using the word 'cocksucker' as an insult was so last century. Not to mention unimaginative. And then I said that, speaking as someone who's rather fond of performing that particular act, I resented his attitude.”

“That doesn't seem too bad,” Sid said slowly.

“Well, I didn't stop there.” And if Sid wasn't mistaken, Andrew was blushing faintly. “Because he tried to brush me off—you know, 'I was only joking.' Which is completely the wrong thing to say. So I just looked at him, and said, 'You know what? Unless I'm completely wrong, I don't believe I'm the only one at that table who's ever sucked a cock.' And then I smiled at him, and it was really, really, _really_ not a nice smile, and I asked him, 'But I'm not wrong, am I?' And that's when he ran away.”

Sid thought about that for a minute. Part of him wanted to laugh, but part of him. . . .

“What made you say that last thing?”

Andrew laughed softly. “Two reasons, actually. One is: in my experience, the only kind of men—under a certain age, at any rate—who use that word as an insult are those who are, at the very least, intrigued by the notion.”

“Hmmm,” Sid said, considering that. There were certain players who used that word consistently, and Sid had wondered. . . . “And the other reason?”

There was real amusement in Andrew's voice when he said, “When we all walked in here, I saw him check out the bouncer. Who is, I admit, worth checking out—at least, if you like that type. It was a pretty blatant eye fuck—and he caught himself after a second or two. I don't think anybody else noticed.”

Sid certainly hadn't. Of course, he hadn't noticed the bouncer either. He craned his neck around, but . . . he had no idea.

Andrew chuckled, and leaned forward. “Over at the far end of the bar. Black t-shirt, tribal tattoo.”

Sid studied him for a few seconds, and then, making a decision, turned back to Andrew and said simply, “Not my type.”

“Mine either.”

This time, it was Sid who raised his glass for a clink. And his hand hardly shook at all.

**********

“So, did I answer all of your questions?”

Sid thought. “Um, I maybe have one more. Why do you use full names?”

“Huh? I don't think I understand.”

“Why do you call Geno Evgeni? Or Nealer James? Why don't you use their nicknames?”

“Because they didn't ask me to,” Andrew said simply. “I'm not just willy-nilly going to call somebody something that isn't her or his name. That's true of everybody I meet. And in this case? I'm not a member of the team. So if James wants me to call him Nealer, he's going to have to tell me to do so. I know how I feel if people call me something other than Andrew.” He paused with his glass half-way to his lips. “Do you want me to call you something other than Sidney? And do all hockey players have a nickname?”

“We do; the joke is that hockey players can't remember long words, so we shorten everything.” Sid snorted, and Andrew laughed. “And mine is Sid. Short for Sid the Kid. Which I'm not, anymore.”

“Well, that's open to debate, I think. But . . . do you want me to call you Sid? Or should I stick with Sidney? Or,” and he paused dramatically, “should I call you something else? Some nickname that I may or may not have already thought of?”

“I think,” Sid said slowly, “that I'm afraid to ask.”

Andrew burst out laughing, and flung himself back in his chair. He sprawled, loose-limbed, flushed a bit from the drink—or something else? Sid wondered—and smiled widely over at Sid, who could not have stopped himself from smiling back if he tried—and he didn't.

Just then Geno demanded their attention. “We do more vodka now.”

“No, Evgeni. _Net, net,_ _tysyachu raz_ _net._ ” Andrew looked at his watch, grimaced, and stood up. “I am going to the bathroom, and then I'm going to my hotel and get some sleep. I need to be at the airport at five tomorrow morning.” Geno protested, but Andrew just shook his head firmly, and sidestepped him, heading for the men's room. Sid sighed a little; he made resisting Geno look easy.

Geno plopped down in Andrew's empty chair. “He good guy, no?”

Sid nodded.

Geno said, “What we do about. . . ?” He nodded his head in the general direction of the bar, and Sid didn't even have to look to know he meant the rookie.

“I . . . don't know,” Sid said finally. “You mean . . . about tonight?” Geno nodded. “Maybe . . . nothing?”

Geno nodded again. “I think best. He learn his lesson.”

Sid snorted. “He'd better have.”

“Andrew a lot meaner than he look,” Geno said admiringly.

Sid laughed a little. “I'm not sure mean is the right word, Geno. But I know what you're saying.” Taking a quick look around, he repeated most of what Andrew had said to the rookie.

Geno, predictably, laughed. “He have balls of steel.” He looked at Sid, and they both nodded, in perfect agreement.

Andrew walked back up just then, staring at his phone.

“Evgeni: do you know someone named Alex Ovechkin?”

Sid stiffened, and Geno stifled a laugh, patting Sid on the arm. “He play for Washington Capitals. Why you ask?”

“Because he's sending me all these tweets saying he likes music more than you do, and I need to sing for him. Or else he'll cry. How on earth does he know I made you that CD?” His phone buzzed once, twice, but Andrew ignored it.

“Uh, I talk about after game. I say your songs bring me luck. So, I guess he see.”

Andrew just stared at him, while his phone buzzed again. And again. “See . . . as in, what, on the news?” His voice went up incredulously on the last word.

“Maybe . . . ESPN? Hockey Network? I'm not know.”

Andrew's phone buzzed again, and he looked down at it . . . and then started to laugh. “Look at this! It's an explosion!” He shoved his phone at them, and Geno took it, scrolling down, Sid following along.

“Look like all Russian players jealous of me,” Geno said smugly.

Sid rolled his eyes.

Andrew laughed until he cried.

**********

Sid decided that he was okay to drive, so he insisted on dropping Andrew off at his hotel. It wasn't far, so they chatted desultorily about their schedules. They arrived just as Sid was enumerating the upcoming games that he thought might be particularly worth watching. He pulled up in front of the hotel, and looked over at Andrew, who was wearing a somewhat wry (was that the right word?) expression.

“What?” Sid said, self-conscious.

“It seems to me,” Andrew said, “that all of the homework is on one side.” Although the words sounded teasing, he also seemed serious. “And while I'm spending most of my limited free time learning about hockey, what are you spending most of your limited free time doing?”

“Uh, thinking about hockey?”

Andrew shook his head.

“So . . . learning about . . . opera?”

Andrew nodded his head.

“And I do that . . . how?”

Andrew opened his mouth, and then appeared to think better of what he'd been going to say. He sat there for a minute, his brow creased. Then he said,

“Okay. There's lots of ways to do it. I was going to say, 'just pick something at random,' but I don't think that's the best approach in this case. So: I'll put together some things and send them to you. And you'll listen, and you'll tell me what you like and what you don't. And we'll take it from there.”

Sid said, a little cautiously, “I'm just going to be blunt here, and say that even though we're both pretty busy, I probably have less free time than you do. I promise that I'll try, though.”

“That's all I can ask, right?” He leaned over and patted Sid on the shoulder. “And I promise the same. But at the risk of beating this point to death, let me just say that as different as they are, our jobs are both demanding, time-consuming, and draining. The time that we spend actually _doing_ what we do—in front of an audience, I mean—is only the tip of the iceberg. I'd really like it if we could both get . . . a better understanding of what each of us does. But the actual job has to come first. Make sense?”

Sid nodded, and then said, impulsively, “I'm glad you added that last part.”

“Good.” Andrew unfastened his seat belt, but instead of getting out of the car, he leaned back and closed his eyes for a few seconds. When he opened them, he looked over and said, “Sidney. I had a great time tonight—well, except for that little encounter which we're not mentioning. Ever again, if possible. And last night too—and I don't just mean the dinner, which I thoroughly enjoyed. To be honest, I've never done an encore precisely like that before; it was fun, knowing you were in the audience.”

Nodding decisively, Sid agreed. “I know what you mean. It's nice when . . . uh, it's not just a ton of nameless faces all blurred together. Even though,” he felt compelled to add, “unless they're in the first couple of rows, it actually _is_ mostly just a big blur.”

Andrew laughed. “I know. But at least your audience isn't sitting in the dark. And for the record, I think so too.” Andrew leaned forward a little and then sank back.

“It's my turn for a question—and if it's too intrusive, feel free to tell me so.” He paused for a second or two; “What you said about the bouncer. I don't want to presume here, so in the interests of clarity: is he not your type because he's a guy, or . . . despite the fact that he's a guy?

Sid reviewed that question in his head to make sure he understood it, and then took a deep breath. “Uh, the latter.” And almost without volition, his lips twitched. “And that was a very polite question.”

“Well, I try.” And they both laughed—although Sid would have been hard-pressed to decide whether he was laughing primarily out of amusement, nervousness, or relief. And maybe that was evident on his face, because after studying him for a moment, Andrew said, “Correct me if I'm wrong, but I'm guessing you don't tell a lot of people.”

“You could say that. And . . . you would be right.”

Andrew nodded. “Well, I'm honored by your trust. And, frankly, a little surprised. Especially since we haven't really known each other very long.” He paused, and then said with a grin, “How do you know I won't out you to the tabloids?”

Rolling his eyes, Sid said, “You just took on a hockey player—in front of seven or eight other hockey players—for making a homophobic comment. I know I'm not all that great at reading people, but I kind of figure that somebody who did that wouldn't out me. And it should probably be to Deadspin, by the way, not a tabloid.”

“Good to know. Not that I know what Deadspin is. But I do know that I want to tell you that you're right: of course I won't tell anybody.”

Sid took another deep breath, and enjoyed the tiny bit of relief that comment gave him. “Uh, thanks.”

They both sat there in silence for a minute or so; Andrew was clearly thinking, and Sid was trying not to climb out of his skin.

Andrew stirred first. “So, does anybody else on the team know?”

Sid considered how to answer that. “I haven't told anybody . . . anybody who's on the team now. That doesn't mean that nobody knows. I think maybe one or two of them might have an idea, but they've never said anything to me. Mario knows.”

“And Nathalie, I imagine.”

Sid nodded. And then he said, awkwardly even for him, “There's a couple of guys—on other teams—who know. Sometimes we . . . uh. . . .” He made a back-and-forth gesture—and then stopped and stared at his hand, appalled.

“Fan each other?” Andrew supplied helpfully. He lasted all of two seconds before he burst out laughing, and Sid couldn't help but join in.

“Oh, Jesus, Sidney, I'm sorry,” Andrew managed, eventually. “I shouldn't tease you, but the look on your face . . . I did say that I have a very stupid sense of humor.”

“It's okay, Andrew.” And, Sid realized, that was not a lie. “It's good to be able to laugh about it.”

Andrew's face grew much more sympathetic. “Is it really hard? In the NHL, I mean. I know the stereotype is that all professional sports are incredibly homophobic, but hockey has to be better than football, right?”

Sid snorted. “Better than doesn't mean it's good.”

“I suppose not.”

There was a brief silence, and then Sid said, “If I'm being honest, and I guess I am tonight, then I have to say that I don't think I'd get a lot of flack from the guys. They'd probably chirp me to death, but they do that now; knowing about me would just give them new material. It's other stuff that makes me sick just to think about.” He paused, and then said, “And if it's okay with you, let's not talk about this any more right now.”

“Of course it's okay.” Andrew reached over, and put his hand on Sid's arm. “If you ever do want to talk about it, though, feel free to give me a call. Any time.”

Sid tried to gauge Andrew's sincerity, and decided that he meant exactly that. And given that fact. . . .

“Are you . . . out?” he asked abruptly.

If the question bothered Andrew, he didn't let it show.

“Yes and no,” he said. “Yes, in the sense that everybody in my family and more than a few people in my business know. No, because I've never been asked flat-out in an interview.”

“And if you were asked?”

“Then I'd say yes,” Andrew replied without hesitation. “I wouldn't make a big deal out of it. I'm not exactly keeping it a secret now; I just don't bring it up.” He hesitated, and then said, “And since you're being honest tonight, I will be too. The reason I don't bring it up is because . . . there's essentially nothing to bring up. I don't really date. I haven't had a relationship,” he made quotation marks with his fingers, “since I was in high school.”

“Why not?” Sid asked curiously; Andrew's tone when he pronounced “relationship” had not been exactly pleasant.

“Well, my one and only attempt at it ended in a shitstorm of epic proportions, so that kind of turned me off the idea for a while. Which had the side effect of focusing me even more obsessively on my voice, and my training. And then . . .” he hesitated, “well, at the risk of sounding incredibly egocentric, I got famous really fast. Partly because I'm good at what I do, but partly due to some good luck. Being in the right place at the right time—that sort of thing. Once that happened, I was way too busy to even think about having a relationship—even though I could have. Fame tends to make people express their interest in you very directly. As I'm sure you know,” he added wryly.

Sid rolled his eyes. “I wish I didn't.”

“You and me both. I thank God that even though I was very young, I was not at all stupid.

“Anyway: work has to come first for me. I perform at least 75 nights a year, and I travel almost constantly. I'm usually not in one place long enough to find someone to date, and when I am, these days, at least, I don't really have the motivation. I'd rather do something relaxing—like see a hockey game,” he grinned, with a little bow in Sid's direction—“than muster up the energy to be 'social.'” His tone made that one of the ugliest words in the English language, and Sid couldn't agree with him more. Plus, who wouldn't rather watch a game? Which made him think. . . .

“Hey, Andrew?”

“Um?”

“You know how we were talking, back at Consol, about watching a game together?” Andrew nodded. “Well, why wait until we're in the same city? We could watch the game together over the phone.” Sid grinned widely.

“You mean . . . live games?”

“Sure. I mean, we could also watch old games; I can send you copies of the game tapes I get.” At least, Sid assumed he could. Or he could get someone to do it, he was sure. “Those would be good, 'cause we can stop and rewind, and I can explain plays. But live games would be maybe more exciting for you, and I can explain things like points and stats and standings. And tell you about the other teams.” Sid was getting excited, and Andrew seemed to be too.

“That sounds like fun, Sidney. I get about two thousand channels, and never watch any of them, so I don't know if I have the right ones; you'll have to tell me.” Then he frowned. “But I'd have to be home, wouldn't I? We couldn't do this when I was on the road.”

Sid refused to be discouraged. “A lot of hotels have good sports channels. We'll have to see.” He flushed a bit. “Not that I can explain them . . . you know, as they happen, but, uh, my games are almost always broadcast.”

Andrew's lips twitched, but instead of mocking him, he only said, “Well, I'll just send you texts when you're playing, then, and you can answer them later.”

“As long as they don't all say, 'what the fuck are you doing, Sid?'”

“Sidney, please; give me a little credit for being inventive.”

They both laughed. Then Andrew glanced at the clock on the dashboard and groaned.

“I should go.”

“Okay. But . . .” Sid hesitated. “One more question? A quick one?”

“Sure.”

“Were you surprised? Not that I told you, you already said that. But at what I told you?”

“Pretty much, yes. Not totally, though.” Andrew eyed Sidney sideways. “I got a hint when you scoped me out in my dressing room last night.” Sid flushed, and Andrew laughed a little. “But as I told myself then, you're an athlete. Athletes notice people's bodies.”

“I guess we do. You're in great shape, by the way.”

“I try. But thanks.” Andrew put one hand on the door handle, and then said, “So I get one more question too. Do you want to know what my private nickname for you is?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Andrew reached over and ran his index finger down the bridge of Sid's nose. Then he poked the tip. “ _Bonne nuit_ , _mon oie_.”

“I know all of those words, except for the last one. What does it mean?”

Andrew opened the door and got out. He then stuck his head back in and said, “Good night, my goose.” He winked at Sid and, with a wave, closed the door and walked briskly into the hotel.

Sid stared after him. It took him a minute to realize that his cheeks hurt because he was smiling so widely.

 


	4. Chapter 4

A couple of weeks later, Sid was undergoing supervised icing after a game, and found himself thinking about change. He was not, as a general rule, in favor of it—unless it was quantifiable in some way: the effects of hard work at improving something about his play. That kind of change was good. Other than that, though? No, not a fan. And yet. . . . And yet. . . . In just a few short weeks, he had experienced an almost unprecedented number of changes that were not, at least up 'til now, freaking him out. In fact, if one of the most surprising things was how not freaked out he was, the other had to be how some of these changes fit seamlessly into his somewhat (okay, intensely) rigid scheme. If he were not sitting here, for example (not a big change, but not one he would have chosen), he'd be at his stall, checking his phone. And he wanted, very much, to be checking his phone. Because in all likelihood, there'd be a text from Andrew. Which was certainly a change. And a nice one.

The first time they'd watched a game together over the phone (or, as Andrew put it, the first episode of “Captain Crosby Explains It All to Me”) had been an unqualified success. In Sid's opinion, at least, and since at the end of it, it was Andrew who'd asked when they could do it again, Sid thought Andrew agreed. They'd managed to do it a few more times, even once when Andrew was on the road, and it had worked out fine. They'd yet to try it when they were both on the road, which Sid admitted to himself was probably a good thing, since he traveled with a bunch of guys who didn't know the meaning of the word privacy.

Andrew had, Sid quickly discovered, an extremely analytical mind (from his father, he said), and a memory like a steel trap (from his mother). He also possessed, which Sid had kind of figured out already, a love of the ridiculous and a near-NHL level love of mockery (and Sid had still not been able to find out exactly _why_ it was called chirping), which sometimes led their conversations about hockey rather far afield (despite Andrew's shouted insistence, Sid refused to admit that the rules about icing were anything like the rules of fizzbin from that old episode of _Star Trek_. Well, okay: he refused to admit it out loud. He did laugh his goose laugh when they watched the clip on YouTube, though).

They'd also quickly fallen into a texting pattern that was both loose and relatively consistent. Neither one of them expected an immediate answer, obviously (although Sid was always cheerful when one did come right away); Andrew was not married to his phone, like some of the guys were, and neither, of course, was Sid. True to his word, if Sid was playing and Andrew managed to watch at least part of the game, there was a text waiting for him at the end. They also found themselves texting about other things; neither of them talked about anything earth-shattering, but it was . . . _comforting_ , Sid thought, the way they managed to share some of the ordinary things that filled their days. They talked about meals, about practice (or rehearsals, in Andrew's case), about funny things (or not so funny things) a team/cast member had done. Sid really hoped nothing happened to his phone, because he treasured the texts Andrew had sent one day describing, in detail, every single thing his co-star had eaten for lunch, which he only knew because she hadn't brushed her teeth. The final text (“Going to rip off a violin string and floss her myself!”) never failed to make him giggle.

When given the okay, Sid limped his way to his stall and immediately checked his phone. When he saw there were three texts from Andrew, he smiled. He read the first two, and then outright laughed at the third:

 

> _Just saw yet another replay of that (illegal!) check. Want me to go beat him up? Say the word._

 

The improvement to his mood, however, didn't last, and by the time he dragged himself into his house, he hurt all over and his spirits felt even more bruised than he was. He got ready for bed, picked up his phone, and texted:

 

> _2 late 2 talk?_

 

Less than a minute later, his phone rang.

“Hey.”

“ _Mon oie_ : I really want to go beat that creep up.”

Sid laughed a little, squirming into his pillows. “You sound like a hockey player. Except we probably wouldn't say “creep.'”

“Probably not. But there's a limit to my violent tendencies—although, I have to tell you, they've grown exponentially since I started watching hockey.”

Sid laughed again, and since there was no need to replay the game in detail, after a brief recap the talk turned to the sort of everyday things they talked about. Which Sid found really, really _comforting_ , and just what he needed right then.

During a pause, he shifted, trying vainly to get more comfortable, and couldn't hold in his grunt of pain.

“God, you sound miserable.”

“It hurts,” Sid admitted, and then added, “not that I could say that to almost everybody else I know.”

There was a brief silence on the other end, and then Andrew said, amusement in his voice, “I find myself with an almost overwhelming urge to imitate my mother and say, 'Men!' in the world's most disparaging voice. Which is really, really odd, considering that I'm usually one of the men she's referring to.”

“And your dad's the other one?” Sid guessed.

“Oh yeah.” A pause, and then Andrew added, “He's much worse than I am, though.”

Sid snickered. Andrew had shared some stories about his parents, and if he wasn't exaggerating, then his parents were kind of eccentric. Especially his father. Which reminded him. . . .

“Can I ask you a question? A kind of personal question?”

“Sure.”

Sid hesitated, and then forged ahead. “When you told your parents you were gay, how did they react?”

There was a moment's silence, and then Andrew burst out laughing. Which wasn't exactly what Sid had expected.

“Oh my God, Sidney! I don't know what I thought you were going to ask, but it certainly wasn't. . . . Okay. I'm happy to answer your question. But I have to warn you about two things. First of all, their reaction was not what you'd call typical. Because my parents aren't typical. At all. And second: you haven't met them, so you're not really going to appreciate how . . . I don't know, _them_ their reaction was.

“Anyway. I was . . . um, twelve, thirteen, maybe? I kind of knew before then, but by that age, I was sure. So, the three of us were in Vermont for a long weekend, and went out for dinner. And I told them, and then I sort of held my breath. I mean, I couldn't imagine that they would take it badly, but still, it's a big deal, you know? And they just looked at me for a minute, and then they looked at each other, and then they looked at me again, and it was as if they'd rehearsed it, because they both said, at exactly the same time, with _exactly_ the same intonation, 'Well, _duh_.'”

When Sid could talk again, he said, “Oh fuck, Andrew! That is . . . I don't even know what that is!”

“I _know_! And so we had dessert, and everything was perfectly normal. Except that when we went back to our chalet, my dad sat down in front of the fire and started staring into it. Mom and I looked at each other, and she just shrugged, as if to say she had no idea what was going on. And neither did I. So we sat down next to him, and I said, 'Dad. Is something wrong? You look kind of sad.' And he sighed, and said, 'I am. A little.' So I started feeling really weird. And then Mom asked, 'Does it have anything to do with Sasha being gay?' And. . . .”

“Sasha?” Sid interrupted.

“That what my parents call me. Another story. Anyway: my dad just nodded. And now I was feeling horrible, so I said, 'Dad. Talk to me!'

“So he turned to me, and he said, 'Sasha. I just feel terrible, almost . . . inadequate. I really wish now that I'd had the courage to fool around with some of the boys at school, so that you and I could have a co- common frame of ref- reference!'” Andrew's peals of laughter echoed over the phone. Sid was gasping, alternating between honking in laughter and groaning in pain.

“No . . . no . . . no! He didn't!”

“He did! And then—”

“There's more? No. Wait. Wait!” Sid was giggling uncontrollably. When he'd finally wound down, he said hoarsely, “All right. Go on.”

“Okay. But I warn you: this is maybe the best part. So my mom says, 'Daniel. If it means that much to you, you have my permission to perform some experiments.'”

“Fuck you! She did not!”

“She did! And then she said, 'But only if I can watch!'” The last word was practically a wail, and Sid dropped the phone, convulsing.

When he finally found the phone, his hand shook as he raised it to his ear. Plopping his head back on his pillows, he could hear Andrew wheezing on the other end.

“Fuck you, Andrew. Now my bruises have bruises.” And then he snorted into giggles again.

When they'd finally calmed down, Sid said, “Your parents . . . are nothing like mine.”

“Sidney, my parents are like no other parents in the entire history of parents.”

That might . . . actually be true, Sid thought.

“And now, I have a question for you, _mon oie_. Okay?”

“Sure.” Sid waited, certain he knew what was coming.

But once again, Andrew surprised him. “Would you like to meet them? My parents, I mean.”

Would he? “Yes. I think I would.” Then Sid had a horrible thought. “No, wait. What if I can't get this story out of my head? What if you introduce us and I start laughing?”

“Oh, they won't mind that. I laugh at them all the time; I think they're used to it.”

Sid doubted that, somehow. Still, he _would_ like to meet them. And he could put some of his media training to a better use. “Then yes. I would like to meet them.”

“Wonderful!” Andrew sounded truly pleased. “I'll set something up. You play the Bruins soon, don't you?”

“Week after next. I think.”

There was a pause. “Damn; I'm pretty sure they're gone then. Well, maybe . . . oh, forget it for now; I'll figure something out. It's hard enough finding a time for us to get together, without factoring in my parents' schedule. Which, believe it or not, in some ways is even more hectic that yours or mine.”

Sid did find that kind of hard to believe, but then again, he didn't know what Andrew's parents did. He supposed he could ask; he opened his mouth, but a tremendous yawn swallowed his words.

“Tired?” Andrew asked.

“Yeah.”

“Then I'll let you go. Sweet dreams, Sidney.”

“You too. Hey, Andrew?” Sid couldn't keep his eyes open.

“Hmm?”

“Did your father take your mother up on her offer?” Sid asked muzzily.

And then he drifted off into sleep with Andrew's laughter curling 'round his pillow.

**********

When Sid got back to the locker room after a particularly annoying media scrum, which only slightly tainted an _extremely_ satisfying away game against the Caps, he could tell something was up.

“What?” he asked.

“ _Rien de tout_ ,” Flower said. Sid glanced over at Geno. Who was looking innocent, and therefore a clear sign something was going on. He headed towards his space, only to find it occupied.

“Looking good out there, Captain Crosby,” Andrew said, smiling.

“Andrew! What are you doing here?”

“The interview I was supposed to do in New York got canceled at the last minute. So I thought I'd come down and see the game. Oh, and murder Alex Ovechkin while I'm here. Want to help?”

“Gladly. Can we do it now, or do I have to get changed first?”

Geno swatted Sid on the arm. “What he do now?” he asked Andrew.

“He said, on Twitter of course, where he has about six gazillion followers, that if the Caps lost the game tonight—which by the way, you guys, was great—it would be my fault.”

“Uh, why?” Because obviously, every game the Caps lost was Ovechkin's fault.

“ _Because_ I won't sing Russian songs to any poor expatriate hockey players, other than your teammate here—and wipe that smug look off your face, Evgeni, before I do it for you.”

“Just ignore Ovechkin,” Sid said, pulling off his sweater. Which, okay, he probably deserved the look of utter disdain that piece of advice earned him.

“ _Him_ , I can ignore. What I can't ignore is his aforementioned six gazillion followers, all of whom sent me tweets ranging from 'Shame on you' to 'Die, motherfucker.'” He raked his hand through his hair. “Christ, I feel like Hester Prynne in the pillory, except this time the red A stands for Alex.”

“Who's Hester Prynne?” Nealer asked, which Sid was kind of wondering himself. “And why is she making pillows for Ovi?”

Andrew stared at him for a moment, then looked heavenward and muttered something—in what Sid now knew was Italian—that sounded both heartfelt and extremely insulting, so Sid made a mental note to ask about it later. Then, obviously dismissing Nealer from his consciousness, Andrew sank down on the bench.

“I used to have such a nice Twitter account,” he mourned. “All of my followers were well-behaved. I'd announce a new engagement or CD, and I'd get all these happy messages—almost none of which had emoticons in them. Now?” He took out his phone and pressed some buttons, presumably activating Twitter, Sid figured. “Just look at this!” Andrew started to hand him the phone—and then stopped and read, his eyebrows rising and his jaw dropping.

“Okay. This has to end. Jesus fucking Christ!” Everybody in earshot turned to stare as he tossed the phone on the bench, stood up, and started pacing. “Now, apparently, I won't—can't—sing to Ovechkin because my mouth is too full of Evgeni's dick!”

There was a momentary silence—until Geno said, shrugging, “Well, it _is_ mouthful.”

Everybody except Andrew started howling. Andrew, though. Andrew snarled, whirled around, advanced on Geno and, without visibly straining himself, tossed Geno over his shoulder, strode over to the laundry cart and _threw_ him into it—which, being on wheels, bounced, racketed, and skidded into the wall.

The only sound in the room, other than the creaking of the basket, was Nealer's impressed, “Dude!” Sid looked around, and saw either open awe or total disbelief—mostly the latter—on everybody's face. Well, except for Geno's, which was covered by somebody's wet towel. Which Andrew, stalking over to the cart, yanked off and threw on the floor, before he leaned in very close and all but hissed, “Do you have anything _else_ to say, Evgeni Vladimirovich?”

Geno's eyes were wider than Sid had ever seen them. He opened his mouth and said, hesitantly, “No?”

“That,” Andrew informed him, biting off each word, “is the correct answer.” He took a deep breath or two, and then dropped his head. Gradually, his fists loosened on the sides of the cart, and his shoulders slumped. After a minute or so, he took a step back, and held out his hand to Geno.

“I'm sorry I lost my temper, Evgeni, and I'm very sorry I took it out on you. Need some help?”

Eying him cautiously, Geno nodded, and working together, Geno managed to clamber out of the cart. When he was on his feet, Andrew turned to the room and said, not meeting anybody's eyes, “Sorry, guys.”

“Andrew. Dude! Don't apologize! That was fucking awesome!” Nealer, of course. Not that Sid disagreed. Since Geno didn't get hurt.

“You're a lot stronger than you look,” Flower said, to a general murmur of agreement. Geno made a face, and said, “Tell me!” A bunch of guys laughed, and started drifting back to their gear.

Andrew just shrugged, walked over to Sid's bench, and sat down. Staring into space, he said, dully, “I really hate it when I lose my temper.”

“Most people do. Well, most people who aren't sociopaths.”

That made Andrew laugh a little. “I guess I'm not that far gone yet.” He shook his head. “Hanging out with you guys is having a bad effect on me, though.” Sid froze. What did that mean?

“No, no, no,” Geno said, coming over and sitting next to Andrew. “Is good thing, hanging out. Make you happy, make us happy. So you act very Russian, just now.” He shrugged. “You let Russian out more often, is good thing too.”

Andrew quirked an eyebrow. “You do know, Evgeni—well, maybe you don't, I can't remember if I ever said—I'm only a quarter Russian.”

“Is best part,” Geno said firmly. “And you call me Zhenya, now.”

The effect of that statement on Andrew was remarkable; the shadows on his face seemed to disappear like magic.

“Really?” he asked, and Geno nodded. Andrew took a deep breath, and then said, “ _Vy menya chest'_.”

Geno scoffed. “Is no big honor.” He grinned. “You pick me up. All boys who pick me up call me Zhenya.” Which, what? Sid thought.

Andrew laughed a little. “You know, it's kind of amazing how your command of the English language waxes and wanes.”

“I amazing all times. And I deal with Ovi. I tell him stop.”

Andrew shook his head decisively. “Oh, no. No, no, no. That will make things worse. I have to make him stop on his own.”

“He not stop 'til he get what he wants.”

Sid nodded emphatically. “I agree with Geno. And with you, Andrew.”

Andrew's shoulders slumped a little. “But if I give him what he wants . . . it's like blackmail. I won't sing just because someone's forcing me to.”

Sid thought for a second. “But . . . don't you? I mean, sort of. When someone hires you to sing something, when you sign a contract, aren't you being . . . well, not forced. But . . . um, required to do it?”

“Well, yes. In a sense, you're right, Sidney. But there's a difference between being required to do something, and being coerced into doing something. And besides,” he added practically, “that same contract requires me to be paid. Which makes a difference.”

“So make him pay you,” Sid suggested.

“I can't ask for money,” Andrew objected, “it would. . . .” His voice trailed off, and he stared into space. Sid exchanged glances with Geno, shrugged, and started changing again. He didn't get very far before Andrew started laughing softly.

“Oh, I think this will work. And if I do it right, he really will pay for all of the crap he's caused. Thanks, Sidney. . . .” Andrew's voice trailed off as he looked up. And then he blinked. Several times. “What the _hell_ is that?”

“What?”

“That . . . object you're wearing.”

Sid looked down. “That's my lucky cup.”

“Lucky?” Andrew peered at the item in question and shuddered. “That thing looks like it breeds its own diseases. And then snacks on them.” Sid ignored the not-so-muffled hilarity circulating the locker room. “How long have you been wearing it?”

Sid shrugged. “Since I played in Juniors.” And then, “Andrew, it's _lucky_.”

Andrew let out a very deep sigh. “Sidney, if you try to get lucky wearing that thing, I don't understand how you're not a virgin.”

As he made his way to the showers, Sid kicked Nealer, who was conveniently rolling on the floor.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Everybody was frustrated after they played the Bruins. It was the worst kind of loss: they'd played well, but it was one of those nights when nothing worked. The mood in the locker room afterwards was grim; everybody was tired and gloomy, and most changed silently (well, for hockey players) and were obviously longing to get back to the hotel, get drunk efficiently in the hotel bar, and then get some sleep.

Ordinarily after a game like that, Sid would feel the same way. But at least he had something to look forward to: he and Andrew were in the same city for once, and were going to grab some dinner. When Sid had checked his phone after the game, he'd read Andrew's consolatory text (“Just not the right night, I guess,”) but even though the next one had said, “Want to skip dinner? It's fine if you're too tired,” Sid had replied, “No.” He felt . . . unsettled. It was more than the game, and maybe if he relaxed, he could figure it out. And spending time with Andrew was relaxing.

He got one more text before he finished changing (“I'm outside”); Sid stared at his phone for a minute, and then shook his head. “C u soon,” he wrote back, and put his phone away.

He finished changing, and was the last to leave, which wasn't unusual—and found where Andrew was waiting.

“Hey.”

“You okay?”

“I guess. Tired. Hungry.”

“Well, I can do something about one of those things.”

They fell into step and left the Garden, one of the very few words that Andrew pronounced with a definite Boston accent, which Sid thought was pretty funny.

“You up for a walk, or should we get a cab?”

Sid shrugged. “Walking is good.” So they walked—in silence, at first, which Sid, somewhat uncharacteristically, broke by asking, “So, why'd you wait out here? Why didn't you come in and say hi to the guys?”

Andrew eyed him sideways, opened his mouth, and then ran his fingers through his hair, which Sid now knew was a tell for him being upset.

“Honestly? I still feel embarrassed about how I acted after the Caps game.”

Sid summoned his captain's voice. “Andrew. Are you still focused on that? I told you to forget about it. The guys are fine with you.”

Andrew gave him an unimpressed look. “You may stand down, Captain Crosby; I know what you said. But that doesn't change the way that I feel. My issues with my temper go back a long way.”

“You think you're the only guy in that room who's got a temper?” Sid laughed. “Trust me, you're not. The guys have seen me do a lot worse.”

“Somehow I doubt you ever picked up someone and threw him in a laundry cart,” Andrew said dryly.

Sidney let out a frustrated breath. “If anything, that made some of the guys like you more.”

“ _Some_ of the guys?”

“The ones who haven't spent any time with you. And the ones who had already liked you.” He stopped and put his hand on Andrew's arm, moving so that they were face to face. “Look. You're dwelling on this too much, and I wish you'd stop. We have better things to talk about tonight.”

That earned him a raised eyebrow. “We do?”

“Yeah. Like, what we're doing about dinner. And how you're going to make me feel better after that fucking disaster of a game.” Although, Sid realized, he already felt better.

“Oh, I get it,” Andrew said with a smirk. “Tonight is about you, you, you.”

“Of course it is,” Sid said, in his best years-of-media-training, matter-of-fact tone—which he knew amused Andrew. And as usual, it worked.

“Fine. Agenda duly noted. And as for dinner: it took me a while to decide. Because despite what you say, from what I've been able to observe, your interpretation of your nutrition plan is somewhat . . . flexible. So I decided to cook. And we're having fish. Which will be served with vegetables and salad, all of which you will eat. I was going to make some brown rice . . .”

Sid groaned, and Andrew grinned.

“. . . but I decided that I wouldn't torture you on your first visit to my apartment, so we're having oven fries.”

Sid's mouth was already watering. He looked around. “How much longer 'til we get there? And is there dessert?”

“Just a few minutes. And yes. But only if you're good. Or pout charmingly.”

“I can probably manage one of those.”

**********

“This,” Sid said indistinctly, about an hour later, “is really, really good.” He emptied his wine glass, and then refilled it.

“Glad you like it. And since you watched me make everything, you know that I'm telling you the truth when I say that it was all pretty easy. I can only cook really simple stuff.”

“There's simple stuff,” Sid said, reaching for the bowl of potatoes, “and then there's simple stuff that tastes great.” He put two more potato spears on his plate, hesitated, and then added a third. “What kind of fish is this?” he asked, forking another bite into his mouth.

“Halibut. Jesus, Sidney, chew a little more, okay?”

Sid swallowed and grinned at the same time. “I think halibut is my new favorite fish.”

Andrew rolled his eyes, and went back into the kitchen, returning with more fish he'd been keeping warm. “Never let it be said that I can't take a hint. Eat some of your Brussels sprouts, and I'll let you have more fish.”

Sid made a face, but stabbed one of the green globes and ate it. “Hey, these aren't bitter, like they usually are.” He captured another one.

“They're really fresh. And small. That's why.”

Sid ate another, and held his hand out for the fish. “Do you eat this way all the time?”

“I _try_ . I do okay when I'm here, or at home with my parents. On the road, it's a lot harder—as I'm sure you know.” He made a face. “At least in this country. I hate to say it, but it's often easier in Europe. Italy, especially.” He sighed happily. “I _love_ eating in Italy.”

“Do you go there a lot,” Sid asked, wiping his mouth, and wondering if he wanted more, or should save room for dessert. But more wine, yes.

“Hello? Bel canto opera singer here,” Andrew teased. “But yeah, I've spent a fair amount of time there. I studied there for a while, when I was in my teens, and I've sung there at least once or twice a year since. In fact, I'm singing at the Rossini festival next summer, in Pesaro.”

Sid didn't know what that was, but from the look on Andrew's face, it was a good thing.

“Anyway . . . do you want dessert now, or should we wait a little while?”

“I can get back to the hotel a little late,” Sidney decided. “So let's wait.”

After clearing the table, they went into the living room. Sid looked around curiously; he hadn't really paid attention before.

“This is . . . nice,” he decided. “I like the colors. It's all . . . um, warm? Is that something a room can be?”

“Thanks. And yes—if you do it right.”

“I didn't,” Sid said mournfully. Andrew's house was better. It had warm colors, and it was making Sid feel warm too. “I kind of hate my house. The one in Pittsburgh, anyway. The one in Halifax is better.”

“Want to see the rest of this one?”

“Sure.”

There were three rooms Sid hadn't seen: two bedrooms, and one that looked like it was a den. There was a door between the two bedrooms, and he asked, “What's that room?”

“That's not a room, it's the stairs that go up to my studio. The door's for sound-proofing. Want to take a look?”

“Sure.”

He followed Andrew up and, after Andrew flicked on some lights, walked into . . . a really large room: it was almost as big as the entire downstairs. One wall was punctuated with floor to ceiling windows, and there were three huge skylights above. Sid whirled around, trying to take it all in. There was a piano in the middle of the room, even bigger than the one downstairs. A wall of bookcases, some orderly, some crammed together. Two immense couches, that looked so comfortable he kind of wanted to sink down in one. File cabinets, two worktables, one with a computer and a bunch of other electronics that Sid didn't even recognize, the other with papers and more books. There were doors at either end of the room; he walked over and looked in one. Lots more electronics, and judging from the microphones, it was some kind of recording set-up. The door at the other end led to a workout room, with cardio equipment and free weights, all meticulously arranged. And on the inside wall, next to the stairs, were two of the largest white boards Sid had ever seen. He peered at one of them: it seemed to be a calendar for the next five years.

“You know so far ahead what you'll be doing?” he asked curiously.

“Sometimes. That much in advance, it's all really tentative. But it takes a lot of logistical work for an opera company to assemble the cast it wants.” He smiled at Sid. “It's not like they have us on tap, usually, like you guys. So it makes sense to track even the haziest future stuff.” He gestured toward the other board. “Now, most of that is set in stone.”

Sid studied that one for a few seconds to be polite. But as he was turning away, he noticed something.

“You track my schedule too?” he asked, smiling widely.

“Well, yeah,” Andrew said, as if it should be obvious. “When I'm home, I spend most of my time up here. Where else would I track anything?”

Sid sort of shrugged. He . . . didn't really know how to react, except to keep smiling. Then a thought occurred to him.

“But you're on the road a lot too. How do you track things then?”

Andrew gave him a quizzical look. “On the calendar on my phone. How do you keep track of things?”

“I don't think my phone has a calendar,” Sid said. “So if I remember, I write things down on a Post-It before I leave home.” Honesty compelled him to add, “I don't usually remember. Or if I do, I lose the Post-It.” He could tell Andrew was trying not to laugh.

“Maybe you should let me look at your phone and show you how to use . . . no, _find_ the calendar.”

Uh, no; Sid did not need to display his personal level of ineptitude right then. Instead, he told Andrew, “I'd rather have dessert. Can we have it up here? And then . . . will you sing something for me?”

Sid guessed that was a good thing to say, because Andrew gave him what Sid thought of as his special smile—the one that spread very slowly and made his eyes crinkle.

“Sure, we can eat up here; let me go get it. And I'd be happy to sing to you if you want. Think about what you'd like to hear.” He started towards the door. “Do you want some tea? I have herbal and regular.”

“Uh, no thanks. Maybe . . . another glass of wine? You need any help?”

“Nah. Be right back.”

Sid went over, sat down on one of the couches, and immediately fell in love. By the time Andrew came back, Sid was almost supine.

“Are we feeling relaxed?” Andrew teased.

Sid opened his eyes. “This is the best couch in the entire world. I want this couch. I want this couch in every room of my house. In both of my houses.”

“Well, I'll tell you where I got it—a place over in Cambridge. Now sit up.”

“No.” Sid closed his eyes again.

“You can't eat Italian pastries lying down, Sidney. It's the law.”

Sid opened one eye. “What kind of pastries?”

Andrew crouched and showed him the plate. “Well, there are cannoli, and rum squares, and Neapolitans and . . . oh, no.” He backed away to evade Sid's grabby hand. “No, no, no.”

Sid stuck his lower lip out, and tried to look pitiful. “Please?”

Andrew shook his head. “Nope.” And after a few seconds, he added, “Did I mention that these were made fresh today? In a little bakery in the North End? Where people stand in line for an hour sometimes?” He held the plate under his nose and sniffed. “And they smell so good, too.”

“Ugh. Okay, okay.” Sid pushed himself up, and flopped against the couch back. Andrew put the plate down on the coffee table, sat down next to Sid, and then handed him a napkin.

“Help yourself.”

Sid eyed the plate, and calculated. “That dinner was so healthy I could probably have two, right?”

“That's between you and your nutritionist. And you should take whatever you don't eat back to the hotel, and share it with the guys.”

“You're not having any?” If they tasted as good as they looked, fuck sharing.

“Nah. Dairy and I aren't always the best of friends. And I have a rehearsal tomorrow, so . . . not a good idea.”

“What are you rehearsing?” Sid picked one of the square ones, and took a bite. And immediately moaned.

“A concert with the Handel and Haydn Society. I take it you like your dessert?”

After Sid swallowed, he said, “This is almost as good as the couch. Fuck.” He took another bite, and said, indistinctly, “I guess there are perks to living in Boston. Despite the Bruins.”

Andrew snorted. “Oh, we're not bitter, are we?” But he was clearly teasing.

“So, what do you want me to sing?”

Sid waved his hand. “You choose.”

“Uh, uh. You requested this concert, so you have to choose.”

“I can't,” Sid whined. He leaned forward, snagged his glass, and drank.

Giving him a stern look, Andrew said, “Sidney. Have you listened to any of the things I sent you?”

“I have!” Sid said indignantly. He even put his glass down indignantly. And it was true. He hadn't listened to all that many, but that hadn't been the question. So there.

“Well, of the things you listened to, what did you like the best?”

Sid decided to tell the truth. “I didn't like any of them.”

“What? None?” Andrew sounded almost incredulous. “Why not? I picked out some of the best performances ever recorded.”

“'Cause it wasn't you singing.” And that was the truth too.

Andrew stared at him intently for a bit, and then his face changed. He looked . . . kind of shocked, actually.

“You really mean that, don't you?”

Sid nodded. “Uh, yeah.” He finished the last bite of his pastry, and unabashedly licked his fingers. “Of course I do.” He looked at Andrew expectantly.

“What?”

“I'm waiting. For you to sing,” Sid said, a little petulantly.

Andrew rolled his eyes and muttered something, but it didn't sound mad, so Sid ignored it. Then Andrew said, “Fine, I'll pick.” He stood up and went over to the piano.

“What are you _doing_?”

“Getting ready to sing you something.” The “moron” was understood.

“But you're all the way over _there_ ,” Sid whined. “Can't you sing here?” He patted the couch next to him.

Andrew threw his hands in the air. “For the record, I don't think this is your most attractive side, Sidney.” The fact that he was trying not to grin told Sid he was lying. “Well, I need some accompaniment, so give me a couple of minutes.” He strode towards the electronics room, flipped on the light, and started pushing buttons. Sid used the time to try and pick out his second pastry. They were pretty small; he wondered if two would be enough.

Andrew came back and sat down. “Does this meet with your approval, _mon oie_?”

“No singing yet,” Sid reminded him, finally deciding on one of the rectangular ones this time, but before he could take a bite, Andrew leaned over and snatched it out of his hand. Sid opened his mouth to complain, and Andrew _shoved_ the end of the pastry in his mouth.

“A little less bossiness, Sidney. Eat your pastry in silence, please, while I astound you with my voice.”

Sid nodded his head eagerly. While chewing.

Shaking his head, Andrew pressed a button on the biggest remote control Sid had ever seen. Music started pouring out of . . . well, everywhere. Andrew adjusted the volume down a little, and after a few seconds, began singing.

Again, Sid had no idea what the words meant. But Andrew's voice was so beautiful, so full of emotion, that Sid thought it was telling him a story anyway. Kind of a sad story, he thought, placing the as-yet-uneaten part of his pastry down and closing his eyes so he could listen better.

At the end, Sid opened his eyes.

“Did you like that?”

Sid nodded, but added, “You sounded lonely. It was sad.”

Andrew jerked a little in surprise. “I didn't think you understood Italian.”

“I don't. But that's what it sounded like, inside.” He gestured vaguely towards his torso as he leaned forward to reclaim his pastry. “Sing something happy now.”

“Yes, my lord and master.”

By the end of that song, Sid was slumped against Andrew's side. By the end of the next one, he'd swiveled around and put his head in Andrew's lap. Andrew was patting Sid's hair and it felt so _nice._ Sid burrowed down further.

After a while, the singing turned into talking, and Sid wasn't happy.

“Sidney. You need to go back to your hotel now.”

Sid squirmed. “No.” Then he squirmed again, and exhaled. He wasn't going anywhere.

A little later, he heard the voice again.

“Sidney. You can't spend all night on the couch; it might hurt your back. At least come to bed.”

Sid groaned. For a long time.

“Oh, for the love of . . . okay, fine.” The next thing Sid knew, there was an arm underneath him. “Come on, Sidney. Put your arms around my neck.” That sounded nice, so Sid did. All of a sudden, there was a deep grunt, and he was being picked up and carried.

“You're strong,” he slurred.

“I work at it. Good thing, too; your ass weighs a ton.”

“You picked up Geno.”

“I did.”

Things got bumpy. And Sid remembered. “You threw Geno in a . . . thing. Are you gonna throw me?”

“No. We're just going downstairs.”

“You threw Geno.” Except for a sigh, there was no response, so Sid tried again. “You give Geno you singing and not me. You throw Geno and not me. Why won't you throw me?”

“Don't tempt me.” There was a dip, and Sid wondered if he was tempting enough. But instead, he was placed gently onto a nice soft . . . “Bed!” he said happily, and tried to roll over and burrow, but he was thwarted.

“You need to take the rest of your suit off, Sidney. It'll get ruined.”

“Suit off . . . is good,” Sid declared, thrusting his hips up.

There was a pause, and then, “Oh for God's . . . okay, fine.” Sid felt hands at his waist, and then his pants were pulled off. Then his socks. And then . . . oh. Fingers at his chest, and he was rocked sideways, which wasn't fun, but then his shirt came off, and maybe that would be fun? He peered up, but Andrew was folding things, and then walking away.

“No!”

“I'm just getting you a glass of water.”

“You'll come back?”

“I will. Promise.”

Okay. And then his head was being lifted, and he swallowed obediently.

“Good night, Sidney.” And Sid felt a pat on his arm. He reached out and held on.

“I need to sleep.”

“You do. So, good night.”

Sid held on tighter.

“Stay 'til I sleep?” He swallowed. “Please?”

There were words that Sid didn't understand, but then he heard, “Okay.” And then there was warmth next to him, and he wanted to grab that too, but there was something in the way.

“Go to sleep, Sidney.”

“Sing? Please?”

“If you promise to sleep.”

“Promise.”

“Okay.” And then there was soft singing, and it was warm, and nice, like flannel pajamas and pancakes with real syrup, and the only thing wrong was that Andrew wasn't a hockey player, so Sid couldn't . . . he shouldn't. . . .

Sid slept.

**********

The music that woke Sid up was a lot less pleasant than the music that he'd fallen asleep to.

 

> _I hate to get up,_
> 
> _I hate to get up,_
> 
> _I hate to get up in the morning!_

 

“Ugh. Go away!” Sid moaned, trying to stuff his head under the pillow.

“No can do, Captain Crosby.” There was a brief scuffle, and the pillow was ripped away. Sid opened his eyes slightly and glared—well, squinted—balefully.

“Sidney. You need to be back at the hotel in less than an hour. Plane to catch? Game to play? Ringing any bells?”

Sid's eyes opened the rest of the way. “Oh fuck.”

“Indeed. So let's prioritize.” He gestured towards a tray on the bedside table. “Tea, water, or Gatorade, to wash the aspirin down? Or I have acetaminophen, if you'd rather.”

Sid checked in with his head. “It's not that bad. Aspirin, water, Gatorade, and tea. In that order. Please. If that's okay.”

“I wouldn't have offered if it weren't.” Andrew started handing Sid things, and Sid starting swallowing. Gratefully.

“Don't gulp. Now here's the tea, and it's hot, so be careful.”

Sid made a noise of thanks. He pushed himself up against the backboard, and then cradled the mug between his hands.

“I hope . . . I didn't . . . I wasn't too much of an asshole last night, was I?”

“You weren't an asshole at all, Sidney. But you _were_ a total lightweight. How could you get so plastered on two glasses of wine?”

“Uh. It was more than two. Three.” Or four. At least.

“Well, whatever. Even so, you must have been exhausted if white wine affected you like that.” Andrew shook his head ruefully. “You probably should have gone right back to the hotel and crashed; I'm sorry I dragged you over here.”

“God! Don't apologize,” Sid said. “You didn't drag me; I wanted to come. I guess I didn't realize I was so . . . strung out. I'll be more careful next time.”

Andrew's eyebrows went up at the last two words, and even though he didn't say anything, the expression on his face lightened. He looked at the alarm clock and said, “Have some more tea, and then jump in the shower. I called for a car to take you to the hotel, and if you hurry, there should be time for breakfast before your bus leaves for the airport. Unless you want oatmeal, which is the only thing I've got here.”

“I like oatmeal, but I should probably just go to the hotel.” Sid put down the mug, and scrubbed his face with his hands. “I'm definitely going to get yelled at, for staying out and not letting anyone know.”

Andrew shifted. “Ah. Well. About that. When you conked out, and I couldn't get you to wake up long enough to pour you into a cab, I called Evgeni. He said he'd let . . . whoever . . . know, and that he'd get your stuff ready for you.” A pause, and then, “I hope that was okay.”

“Why wouldn't it be? Thanks.” Sid reached for the mug, and then changed his mind and pushed the covers off; he had to pee, like, four hours ago.

“You should find everything you need in there,” Andrew gestured. “Oh, and for the record: I'm just going to sit here and admire the monument of gluteal perfection that is your ass as you head for the bathroom.”

Sid felt his face go red, but managed to say, “Uh, okay,” before he escaped into the bathroom, Andrew's chuckles following him.

**********

When Sid finished drying off after his shower, he found Andrew rummaging through a dresser drawer.

“None of my underwear will fit you, but I think . . . yeah, maybe these will.” He pulled out a pair of gym shorts and tossed them at Sid. “They're thin jersey, so they might work. Socks are no problem, and since I hung up your suit and shirt last night, you should be all set.”

“Thanks, Andrew.” Sid pulled on the shorts. Good enough, he thought, and with the ease of long practice, put on his suit and tie. He sat down to put on the socks, and. . . .

“These are really nice,” he remarked. “Softer than mine, for sure. What kind are they?”

“I have . . . no idea, actually.” Andrew peered at them. “I think I got those in Italy, the last time I was there. The tailor said they'd be good with the suits I was getting, so I bought a whole bunch. I am not,” he confessed, “all that big on shopping. Suits, yes, of course; but the rest of the stuff? If it works, I buy in bulk. Thank God when I'm on stage I'm either in costume or in white tie; I don't know how women do it.”

“Suits are important,” Sid agreed, checking for his wallet. “I think I'm all set.”

With a glance at the clock, Andrew said, “If you want, you probably have time for another cup of tea before the car gets here. And maybe some toast, or a piece of fruit. You should eat something.”

Sid looked at his watch, and calculated. “Tea, please. And . . . I could do a piece of toast.”

They walked back to the kitchen, where a pot was already steeping. Sid sipped cautiously—still too hot—and waited for the toast to be ready, while Andrew poured himself another cup of coffee.

“I hope you enjoyed yourself last night,” Andrew said, sitting down at the counter.

“I did,” Sid said honestly. “I hope I wasn't a pain.”

“I already said you were fine,” But Andrew eyed him assessingly. “How much of last night do you remember?”

“Uh, I never know how to answer that kind of question,” Sid confessed. “I mean, I could tell you what I remember, but how can I tell you what I don't remember since . . . you know, I don't remember it?”

“Logic so early in the morning?” Andrew laughed. “Then you really aren't hung over.”

“I'm not. Really. Maybe a little headache still. Sometimes wine does that to me.”

Andrew made a noise of agreement. “That's why I avoid red wine. But tell me, what's the last thing you remember from last night?”

Sid thought. “I remember going upstairs. I remember you singing. Lots. That was nice.” Andrew looked down at his mug, a little embarrassed, so Sid said, “I liked it a lot.”

“Good.”

“And then . . . I remember being in bed, but I don't really remember much else, except that then you sang some more, and . . . the next thing I remember is you torturing me to wake up.”

“Torture? Sidney, please: I would never use my voice to torture someone.”

“That,” Sid said deliberately, “is a fucking lie.”

“It really, really is,” Andrew said. And they both laughed.

The toast popped, and Andrew brought it to the table. “I'm having some peanut butter on mine, but I have regular butter and some kind of jelly or jam, if you'd prefer.”

Sid took one look at the brand of peanut butter, and said, “Jelly, please. How can you eat that stuff? All the oil is gross.”

“How can you eat the other kind?” Andrew countered. “It's got trans fat in it, to make it shelf-stable. Do you have any idea what that crap does to your arteries?”

“No, and I don't want to.” They squabbled amiably for a bit. After Sid swallowed his last bite, he took a gulp of tea, and then asked, “So where did you sleep last night? It wasn't in with me; I could tell. I feel kind of guilty that I took your bed.”

“Please. Don't worry about it. I could have dumped you in my parents' room—AKA the guest room—or slept there myself, but I was too lazy to dig out the sheets. Besides: I had some stuff I wanted to get done, and it was late when I finished, so I slept upstairs on the couch; I do that all the time.”

Considering this, Sid took another swallow of tea, and then said, diffidently, “Well, you still should have slept in your own bed. You wouldn't have woken me up. And . . . I wouldn't have minded,” he finished quickly, and buried his eyes in the bottom of his mug.

There was a pause, and then Andrew said, “Good to know.” Sid dared a glance up, and saw Andrew smiling at him. And Sid knew he wasn't all that good at reading people, but if he had to guess, he'd say that Andrew was both pleased and . . . bashful? Maybe. Sid couldn't think of anything else that came close, so he was going with that. And because he could relate, Sid smiled back.

**********

Checking the time, Andrew said, “The car should be here any minute; better get your shoes on.”

Sidney wiped his mouth, stood up, and went to the front hall. He heard a buzzing sound behind him as he tied his laces.

“Car's here,” Andrew called, entering the front hall.

“I'm ready.” Sid picked up his bag. And now the awkward moment. “Uh, Andrew. Thanks. For dinner. And breakfast. And . . . for the bed.”

“What about the concert?” Andrew asked with a smirk. “You know, I could get at least $25,000 for a private show like that.”

Really? “I'll write you a check. But yeah, thanks—for that, most of all.”

Andrew brushed him off. “My pleasure. Hey: a question. Do you guys have to go through airport security like everybody else?”

“Not exactly. But there is some screening. Why?”

“I have a present for you.” From behind his back he pulled out. . . .

“A sock?”

“Two socks, actually,” Andrew laughed. “I didn't have any wrapping paper, so this is as good as it gets. Plus, you said you liked my socks, so now you have some of your own. Now, you might have to take it out for security, but if possible, don't open it until you're on the plane. It's got a six digit password on it; I went with the obvious, which is 8-7-8-7-8-7. And be warned: this is an early model; it won't be on the market for a while, so there may be bugs.”

Sid stammered, “But . . . you didn't have to. . . .”

“I know I didn't; I wanted to. You'll understand when you look at it. Now, scoot: the car's waiting, and so, I'm sure, is the team.”

Impulsively, Sid dropped his bag, and gave Andrew a hug.

“Thanks.”

“You're welcome. Text me when you arrive. Play well. And I'll see you in Pittsburgh in a couple of weeks.”

“I hope so.” Sid picked up his bag, tucked the socks into it, waved, and headed out.

**********

Sid groaned as the car approached the hotel. Any hope he had of making a stealth entrance was doomed, since it looked like half the team was loitering outside. Probably for the express purpose of giving him shit.

“Is something wrong, sir?” the driver asked, pulling over to the curb.

“Uh, no.” Sid took out his wallet. “What do I owe you?”

“Nothing, sir. Mr. Andrew took care of it.”

“Mr. Andrew?” Sid repeated. “Uh, okay.” Remembering the last person he'd heard call Andrew that, he pulled out a $20, and handed it to the driver. “Thanks a lot.”

“You're welcome, sir. Let me get the door for you.”

“No, I can. . . .” Too late. The driver hopped out and opened the door, and Sid got out. He thanked him again, but any response the driver made was essentially lost among the shouts and catcalls coming from the guys.

The driver leaned a little closer to Sid, and asked in a low voice, “Are you going to be okay?”

Sid smiled weakly. “Uh, yeah. These are . . . my friends.”

**********

When the car pulled away, and Sid could finally get a word in edgewise, he said exasperatedly, “What are you assholes doing out here?”

“Aw, we couldn't miss you doing the walk of shame,” Nealer said.

“I don't even know what that is,” Sid said, attempting to sidestep them.

“The walk of shame,” Duper said helpfully, “is when you show up—at home, at work, whatever—wearing the same clothes you had on the night before.”

“We're so proud of you, Sid,” Flower said, wiping away an imaginary tear—the fucker.

“Fuck all of you.” This time, Sid managed to make it into the lobby, the team trailing behind—only to meet Geno.

“Sid, you back.” Geno said, smiling. “I have suitcase in my room. You need to shower?”

“Uh, no. Thanks, Geno, but I showered already.”

Somebody behind him made a comment about Mr. Clean, which was greeting by various sounds of amusement, most suitable to a barnyard.

Geno scowled. “You all go away. Sid and I have breakfast in room.” He looked at his watch. “Quick breakfast.”

“Thanks, Geno; I only had time for. . . .” Even before he finished the sentence, Sid realized what a mistake that was. And so did Geno, apparently, since he yanked Sid over to the elevators, and forcibly restrained anyone else from getting in their car.

“Fuckers,” Sid muttered.

Geno snorted. “Sid, what you expect? You _never_ do like this. And when one of them do, you look like _dedushka_ , grandpa sad he have no prunes.” He crossed his eyes and looked down his nose; despite himself, Sid laughed. “So you stay out all night, they _have_ to. Is part of . . .” he paused, obviously trying to translate in his head, “bro code!” he finished. He was so proud of himself that Sid laughed again.

Geno fumbled in his pocket for the room key, and opened the door. Sid saw his suitcase sitting on the unused bed. Next to a room service tray.

“After Andrew call, I arrange. Andrew say, you not move all night, but I not so sure.” Geno sat down on his bed, and looked expectantly at Sid. “You have good night?”

Sid nodded, swallowing his mouthful of eggs. “Yeah, I did. Obviously not the kind everybody seems to think I had, though.” He took another bite.

Geno's eyebrows went up. “No?”

What the fuck? “No!”

“Why not?”

Sid just stared at Geno. He had the sinking feeling he was about to find out things he didn't want to think about. Or even know. He tried to come up with something to say that would work as a diversion, but Geno got in first.

“Look, Sid,” Geno said. “I know . . . probably others know too. Sometimes you hook up. With guy.” Sid could feel himself turn bright red. “But always other players. Always. And you never spend night. Never. Now: you go with Andrew, not hockey buddy, and you spend night. Is very different. And even before . . . you act different around Andrew.” Sid opened his mouth to argue, but Geno held up his hand. “Is _good_ thing, Sid—you relax. You laugh. You have fun. All good things. But. . . .”

“I knew there'd be a but in there somewhere,” Sid said grumpily. “But what?”

“But is change. Is different. So, while I happy for you, to see relaxed, I have to make sure you okay.” He moved next to Sid and hugged him. “You my friend, Sid. You important. So, you answer. You okay?”

Sid leaned into the hug, because this was Geno, but that didn't stop him from grousing, “This is what I get when I break the rules, huh?”

“Sid, when you break rules, whole league pay attention. Plus, angels cry, very sad.” Unknowingly taking a leaf from Flower's playbook, Geno mimed wiping away a tear.

Sid couldn't help it—he snickered.

“Now, Sid answer.”

“I'm fine, Geno. Really.” Sid bumped shoulders. “Believe me when I tell you that.”

“Okay. I believe.”

“And nothing happened last night.”

“Nothing?” Geno dragged out the word.

“Nothing! We had dinner, I had too much wine, I fell asleep on the couch. Andrew put me to bed, alone, and then woke me up this morning. When I was still alone. I showered—alone!—and then we had breakfast. Well, toast. And tea. And here I am. End of story.” He paused, and then added, “Well, Andrew did sing some stuff for me, too.”

“That something.” Geno was smiling.

“Well, yeah. And it was great. Kind of like my own private concert. Which I guess is a thing? But it wasn't . . . you know.” Sid gestured awkwardly.

With narrowed eyes, Geno said, “And Sid want it to be . . . you know.” It was in no way a question, but this was _Geno_ , and Sid was confused anyway, so he almost said yes, but he was still reeling from the fact that Geno knew, so he didn't say anything. After a few seconds, Geno said, “Sid. Last night: you want something to happen or no?”

Bowing to the inevitable, Sid tossed his fork on the tray and grated, “I don't know.”

“I ask different. Last night, if Andrew make move . . . you go along? Or not?”

Sid sat rigidly, his fists clenched, and his eyes squeezed shut. “Are we done here?”

“Sid. Answer question.”

Sid opened his eyes and glared at Geno, but as usual, it had no effect. “No.”

“Sid. No, you no go along, or no, you not answer question? Is important, Sid.” Geno had his stern look on, and Sid . . . couldn't. Staring at the floor he said, quietly, “I think . . . if he had made a move, I would have gone along with it.”

“You sad nothing happen.” This was not a question either, but with a sigh that seemed to come from his toes, Sid gave up and said, “Yeah.”

“You think last night about making move youself?”

“I kind of thought I had,” Sid mumbled.

“What you do?”

“Well, I was there, wasn't I? He invited me to his place, and I went.”

“You think he fuck everybody come to dinner?”

“No!”

“And you think he _know_ , like team know, how . . . what the word for more big than biggest?”

“Enormous?”

“Will do. He know how enormous thing Sid do, go to house for dinner?”

Reluctantly, Sid ceded the point. “Probably not.”

“Maybe he not interested?”

“I thought he was. In fact, I was sure he was.”

“Why you sure?”

Sid floundered. “I don't know, Geno! I just thought so.”

“He know Sid like guys?”

Rolling his eyes, Sid said, “Yes. I told him. A while ago.”

Geno considered this for a second. “Well, maybe yes he interested, maybe no. But Sid not know unless he ask.”

The only response Sid could manage was “Ugh.”

Geno snickered.

Sid blew out a breath. “Look, Geno. Maybe if he were a hockey player, I could ask him. I know how to . . . negotiate that situation.” A little, anyway. “But there's too many variables here. And I'm not . . . I'm . . . I'm just not comfortable doing that.”

Geno opened his mouth, and then obviously re-thought whatever he'd been going to say. After a pause, he went on, “Sid. I say one thing more. He not hockey player, true. Maybe bad thing, maybe good thing. Not know. Or not know yet. But he come to game. For Sid. He make dinner. For Sid. He sing. For Sid. He put Sid in bed, and he make breakfast for Sid. I say, he interested in Sid, and I say, is good thing. Is better than hotel room bang with player that last one hour tops then Sid sleep alone.”

“I still slept alone,” Sid said, rather sourly.

Geno muttered something in Russian. “Is not the point. Listen, Sid. To me, this sound like Andrew want. But,” he added shrewdly, “I think maybe Sid need. Maybe need but not know yet. Or not know yet how much. I think, Sid keep doing, until he find out.” He held up one finger. “Sid probably find out faster if he ask, but maybe faster not best thing right now.” He looked at his watch. “And now, we go. Bus waiting. Sid okay?”

“Sid is confused. Which is nothing new.” He stood up, and then, a little hesitantly, hugged Geno. “Thanks, Geno.”

“Is nothing.”

Sid held on for a few seconds more. “It's a lot more than nothing. So, thanks.”

After one last squeeze, Geno stepped back. “Now come. And on way to bus, I tell you about call I get from Ovi. Andrew's agent driving him crazy.”

“Good. Although, how could they tell?”

“Crazy even for Ovi.”

“Even better. I want to hear everything.” And laughing, they picked up their bags and left the room.

*********

The first thing Sid did when he got on the plane was text Andrew:

 

> _Ovechkin complaining to Geno abt ur agent. Good job. I wd add happy face but dont know how._

 

He put his phone away, and took out Andrew's socks. Inside, he found . . . an electronic device. With a pair of ear buds, so he assumed it played music. But it didn't look like an iPod.

“What's that?” Flower asked.

“A present from Andrew,” Sid said absently. “He said it needed a password, but where do I . . . ?”

“Try there—on the side.”

Sure enough, there was a small button there. He pressed it, and the front of the thing lit up, displaying a number pad. He pressed 8 and 7 three times . . . and suddenly words appeared.

 

> _Good morning, Sidney! Would you like to hear some music?_

 

“That's pretty cool,” Flower said, peering at it.

“Now what do I do?”

“Press 'Yes' or 'No,' I guess.”

So Sid pressed 'Yes,' and the screen changed.

 

> _Choose by:_
> 
> _Artist_
> 
> _Title_
> 
> _Genre_
> 
> _Tag (default)_

 

“What's a tag?” Sid asked.

Flower shrugged. “Press it and see.”

 

> _Choose Search or Browse._

 

Sid touched Browse. A list appeared, and he scrolled through it, frowning. He didn't know what a lot of these words meant. Then he saw: “Hockey.”

He and Flower grinned at each other.

That led to another list:

 

> _Agony of defeat_
> 
> _Anticipation_
> 
> _Captain Crosby's Favorites_

 

Flower cackled. “I'd say this was custom-made for you, Sid.”

 

> _First Period Face-off_
> 
> _Flower Songs_

 

Sid nudged Flower in the side. “I bet one of those is what he sang at the concert Nathalie and I went to.”

 

> _Inspiration_
> 
> _Malkin's Melodies_
> 
> _Next Time!_

 

The list went on, and ended with “Victory!”

Sid was beaming as he made the obvious choice.

 

> _Choose Individual Songs or Play All._

 


	6. Chapter 6

By the time they got back to Pittsburgh, after winning all of their remaining away games, Sid had listened to more than half of the selections on the Hockey tag list, and was still finding out new things the music player could do. (Well, other people kept finding out and showing him, but still.) Nearly everybody wanted one of the players, but Sid refused to give them Andrew's phone number so that they could ask him themselves. Geno, who already had Andrew's number, wisely didn't get involved, but he told Sid privately that there was no way he was talking about the player to anybody, because if Ovi heard about it, Andrew's life would instantly get worse, and since Sid agreed, he instituted an immediate gag order, which was met with more or less tolerant smirks, eye rolls, and, in Nealer's case, outright laughter. And in Flower's case, too.

Andrew seemed pleased at how much Sid was enjoying the player, and laughed at the guys' numerous requests. He said he'd tell his parents, whose company was making it; he also said that Sid absolutely should not ascribe any wins to the influence of the player, since “the last thing you need, Sidney, is a new superstition.” Of course Sid ignored him, because obviously, it wasn't a superstition if it worked.

They were texting a little more often these days, and Andrew occasionally e-mailed Sid (most notably, a message with the subject line “Your Influence?” containing an excerpt from a review of his concert in Boston that talked glowingly about his “athletic style”), but Sid more and more looked forward to the times when they could speak on the phone. And not just the times they watched a game “together.” The only drawback to that was, of course, their schedules—Andrew went to the west coast for a while, so that added a new complication—plus, the dawning realization that Sid was almost always the one to initiate those phone calls, usually with a one-word text (“Talk?”). It wasn't that Andrew wasn't willing to talk—he certainly seemed to be—so Sid didn't know what the reason was, or if he was imagining things; he was reluctantly beginning to think that Geno was right and that the two of them needed to talk about what was going on between them. If anything actually was. So they probably did need to talk. Sometime. Not on the phone, though. And only when the time was right.

The time was most decidedly not right when Andrew arrived in Pittsburgh. The Pens had just lost two games in a row, and Sid was becoming increasingly (and depressingly) familiar with the songs tagged “Agony of Defeat.” Andrew did make it to a game his first night in town, and came back after and talked to the guys, but he balked at going out for a drink at first, and it took the combined efforts of Geno and Nealer—and, somewhat to Sid's surprise, Flower and the rookie—to get him to agree. (Despite what Andrew said, Sid had _not_ pouted. Much.)

Sid's next couple of games were away, but he and Andrew did manage to talk some. Andrew's rehearsals were not going well, largely, Sid gathered, to the female lead, whose ego (“enough for a whole _team_ of Ovechkins”) was, unfortunately, not equaled by her talent. At least according to Andrew. Who should know.

Shortly before opening night, Sid checked his phone after morning skate to find a text from Andrew, asking him to call as soon as he could. So Sid did.

Andrew picked up on the first ring, and he sounded agitated.

“Sidney—thank God. I have a really, really big favor to ask.”

“Yes.”

A pause. “You don't even know what it is yet.”

“It doesn't matter.” And Sid realized that it was true. “If I can, I will. What do you need?”

“I found out this morning that the soprano causing all those problems withdrew last night. To put this in hockey terms: officially she's on IR, and they're bringing in a replacement from Wilkes-Barre. Essentially, it's all extra drills and practices from now 'til opening night.”

“Okay,” Sid said slowly. “And?”

“And,” Andrew said, “my parents called me late last night. They're in Philadelphia, and want to have dinner with me tonight. Here. I told them sure, and now, of course, I can't. As soon as I found out, I called them, but they decided to come anyway. So I was wondering if you could get them tickets for your game tonight. Dad's never been to one, and he's itching to, since I started, so I thought that if you don't mind? I'll pay you for the tickets.”

“Andrew.” Sid was smiling broadly; this was certainly something he could do. Would do. Gladly. “Of course, I can get them tickets. And shut up about paying. I'll have them waiting at the box office.”

“Thanks, Sidney. I really. . . .” Andrew's voice got muffled for a second, and Sid heard him say, “On my way.” To Sid, he said, “Got to go. Thanks a million; you're the best.”

“You sound like Geno,” Sid said, but Andrew was gone.

“Who sound like me? Who you talk to?”

“Andrew.” Sid gave his friend a considering look. “He's got extra practices all day and, I guess, all night. So his parents are coming to the game tonight.” He attempted to raise an eyebrow.

“No do that to your face, Sid. Scare everybody.”

Sid gave him the finger.

Ignoring this, Geno went on, “We tell team, play good. Special guests. Then we take them out after?”

Sid thought for a second. “Just you and me, yeah?”

“I think best.”

“Okay.”

**********

The last thing Sid did before leaving Consol was to text Andrew:

> _Tix waiting. Used your name._

**********

It was an exciting game; the Pens scored less than two minutes in, and never looked back. At the end of the first, Sid found himself standing by his stall, swallowing Gatorade while one of the songs tagged “Second Period Momentum” played in his head. He grinned when he realized what he was doing, and pretty much grinned for the rest of the game—getting not a few chirps along the way (he actually laughed at one about his functionality being upgraded, which really seemed to freak out . . . well, pretty much everybody who heard him).

He toned it down a little when he entered media mode, a phrase Andrew had used once and that Sid secretly adored, but was again visibly grinning when he reentered the locker room to cool down and change. He got a few odd looks as he walked through, enough that he stopped and asked, “What?”

Duper, who was closest, said, “Sid, you were _humming_.”

“I was?” Sid was honestly surprised. Then he surprised everybody else by saying, “I guess I was,” bursting out into his honking laugh.

“Does this good mood mean that we won't have to drag you out with us tonight, Sid?” Nealer asked.

Shaking his head, Sid said, “Can't. Geno and I are taking Andrew's parents out to dinner.”

“Bring 'em along,” Nealer suggested. “Then we can hit his dad up for those music players.”

“Rude,” Geno admonished, swatting Nealer.

Just then, Mario walked over to them. “Andrew's parents are waiting outside.” He hesitated, and then asked, “Sid, do you know who Andrew's parents are?”

Even Sid knew that “his mother and father” was the wrong answer. He thought for a second. “He told me that his dad's a research scientist, and his mom runs their business. Why?”

Mario opened his mouth, and then closed it again. “Nothing. Just wondering.” He smirked a little, and Sid wondered what that meant.

“They nice?” Geno asked.

“Oh, very nice. Very . . . enthusiastic. In different ways.” He laughed. “You should have seen her when they called that penalty for roughing. If I had to face her on the ice, I'd skate in the other direction as fast as I could.”

“Is the Russian parent,” Geno said with great conviction—not to mention considerable satisfaction.

“I think so, yes.” Now, Mario was clearly trying not to laugh. Sid stared at him suspiciously, but was diverted by Geno urging him to hurry.

“Not keep parents waiting too long, Sid. Is rude.”

**********

A short time later, Sid was sporting a grin from ear to ear, and Geno looked positively star-struck. Andrew's parents were . . . a lot like him, even though they were totally different from each other. Andrew's father (“Call me Daniel,” he'd insisted) was a bundle of energy, with a smile much like his son's; in fact, he didn't even look all that much older than Andrew did. His mother, Elisabeth, was much calmer—but her eyes had the same glint of humor that Sid had . . . become familiar with.

He and Geno had left the locker room, only to find Andrew's parents chatting with Nealer and some of the guys. Geno's scowl promised swift retribution, but Nealer, all innocence on the surface, said, “Hey, G, we had to say hi to Andrew's parents; anybody could tell they're related.” Which made the parents in question beam.

Sid vowed to kick Nealer himself if he even hinted at getting one of the players, but Nealer apparently did know a thing or two about strategy, since he only asked if Andrew was coming later on, and said that he hadn't seen him in a while, so they should all come to the bar and have a drink after dinner.

“We let you know,” Geno said, in a tone that didn't bode well for Nealer, but Andrew's parents seemed taken by the idea.

“This bar . . . does it have a pool table?” Daniel asked. “I'd love to play a little pool tonight.” Elisabeth rolled her eyes at him.

“Pool, Daniel?”

Daniel nodded his head eagerly. Elisabeth shrugged and said to Nealer, “More importantly, does this bar have good vodka? If Daniel's playing pool, then we must have good vodka. And do they know you there, so they won't mind a crowd?”

A chorus of opinions—all different—began, which Elisabeth somehow managed—Sid wasn't sure how—to head off, by telling Nealer, “Well, you let us know where, and if possible, we'll join you.” Daniel chimed in, “But don't forget the pool table, and the vodka. We'd love to buy you a drink, to celebrate that game! What a wonderful introduction to the sport!” He paused, and then grinned, and looked so much like his son that Sid felt . . . something . . . in his belly. And even more so, when Daniel added, “My son told me this would a great way to lose my hockey cherry!'”

After that remark, Sid wouldn't have been at all surprised if the whole team ended up having dinner with them, but once again, Elisabeth managed to take charge, and somehow got the others moving—in the opposite direction.

When it was just the four of them, she said, “And of course, you two are Evgeni and Sidney. So nice to meet you.” With a warm smile that made it clear she was speaking the simple truth. “Now: I am going to monopolize Evgeni for a while. Evgeni, we will speak Russian, and you will tell me all your secrets. Sidney, Daniel has many, many questions about hockey.”

“I really, really do,” Daniel said. “But if you don't want to talk shop, that's fine.”

“I love talking about hockey,” Sid confessed. “To be honest, I don't really know how to talk about anything else.”

Daniel shouted with laughter, and Elisabeth laughed as well, saying, “I doubt that, Sidney. But let's go; watching the game has given me a tremendous appetite.” She put her arm through Geno's, and they started walking towards the exit, both speaking rapidly in Russian.

Sid stared after them for a minute, until Daniel said, “If they get too far ahead, they'll leave without us, Sidney. Or worse, they'll decide where to eat, and we'll have to have Russian food. Which is good, but not for tonight. Tonight, I want something decadent. Something to celebrate my first game. Something that is definitely not on my son's list of approved foods.”

“So, no fish or brown rice?”

Daniel made a face. “Not tonight. I know Andrew's right, and I actually love fish, but sometimes . . . you have to cut loose! Right, Sidney?”

Sid managed to muster up an agreeing sound, and Daniel eyed him shrewdly. “Cutting loose not something you do all that often, then?”

“Not really, no.”

“Well. We'll have to see about doing something about that. It's great fun, being wicked every so often.” He rubbed his hands together. “Perhaps Elisabeth and I can teach you, while you teach me about hockey. Now, I didn't have a lot of time to research it, but I understand that modern hockey had its origins in a game called shinny. . . .” And taking Sid's arm, which should have made him very uncomfortable, but which somehow didn't, they hurried to catch up with the others.

**********

Dinner was . . . fun, once Sid determined that the best way to experience Andrew's parents was simply to surrender to the inevitable, enjoy himself, and worry about things like his nutrition plan later. Much later.

They'd ended up in a small, nondescript restaurant that Daniel lobbied for, after declaring that they didn't want someplace too fancy, because fans might bother “the boys,” and after hearing who had recommended it (somebody they worked with, Sid guessed), Elisabeth was quick to agree. The food was delicious—the three men had steaks and Elisabeth had salmon—and the conversation was . . . easy. Geno had been more than half in love with Elisabeth even before they'd arrived, and if the pitying look she'd given Sid when he'd ordered his steak well done was a little disconcerting (he could see what Mario meant), any reservations he had disappeared when the topic of Ovechkin came up, and she roundly declared that he needed to be spanked, and she was half-tempted to take on the job herself. Sid didn't doubt for a minute that she was more than capable of doing it, and from the look on his face, neither did Geno. Daniel, on the other hand, merely shook his head, and told her she needed to be more subtle, and suggested instead they send Ovechkin a specially-engineered bottle of shampoo that would make his hair fall out. He seemed quite gleeful about his idea, and his whole demeanor called to mind a high school science nerd concocting a stink bomb for the girls' locker room.

Because Sid worked best with a clear plan in mind, he'd given some thought beforehand to his strategy; excusing himself after they'd ordered, on his way to the bathroom he tracked down their server and made her promise to hand him the check. When the table was cleared (Elisabeth had insisted he finish her dessert too, and Sid wasn't going to argue with her) and the server complied, he still wasn't prepared for the vehemence of their protests, which he ignored. After handing his card to the server, though, he shook his head and said, “Now I see where Andrew gets it.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he wondered if he was being rude, but apparently it was exactly the right thing to say, because they both stopped protesting and said thank you, with wide smiles.

Sid checked his phone as they got ready to leave, and saw a text from Andrew saying he was almost done, maybe an hour more, and where were they? It was time-stamped only twenty minutes ago. He showed it to Daniel and Elisabeth.

“What do you want to do?”

“Let's go play some pool,” Daniel said eagerly.

Elisabeth nodded. “Sasha will need a drink or two, after the day he's had; will your teammates still be out, or should we pick our own place?”

“I sure they still there,” Geno said, rolling his eyes. “I get address from Nealer.” Which he did, and then sent to Andrew.

Sid got two texts, one after the other. The first one, sent to both him and Geno, said, “Thank God. I really need a drink.” The second, sent only to him, said, “Be careful.” He wondered what that meant, and then shrugged. He'd ask Andrew when he saw him.

**********

By the time Andrew arrived at the bar, Sid actually had a very good idea about what his warning meant. First of all, Daniel was a total pool shark. Three times in a row, Sid watched him lull his opponents into a false sense of security by (deliberately? Must be.) emphasizing his general geekiness and vagueness . . . and then sweeping the table, pocketing his winnings with obvious glee. Of course, he then turned around and bought everybody drinks, so clearly he wasn't in this for the money.

Elisabeth, on the other hand, had been politely dismissive of the selection of vodka, and had ordered an assortment of mixed shots that the bartender clearly had never heard of—no doubt to achieve her own goal of getting behind the bar and making them herself. Sid thought the bartender was going to refuse, until she handed him a credit card—and in the process, palmed him a tip that made his eyes almost fall out of his face. In addition to Geno, she now had three or four other satellites from the team hanging on her every word. She accepted this calmly, but from the twinkle in her eye, so much like her son's, Sid figured she was loving every minute of it, as she egged the guys on to try more and more exotic combinations.

After one sample, which had him gasping, Sid stuck to beer. He wouldn't have minded one of the green drinks that Andrew had given him, but he didn't even know what they were called. He chatted with some of the guys not surrounding the bar, and tried not to be so obviously hovering near the door.

Judging from the smirks he got from Flower, he wasn't successful.

Still, though, he'd chosen a good vantage point, as he was among the first to see Andrew walk in. He watched Andrew's eyes scan the room, and tried to suppress a feeling of immense satisfaction when his whole face lit up when he saw Sid.

“Captain Crosby!” he called, as he crossed over to Sid. “You survived!” He gave Sid a hug. Which Sid returned. “Did my parents leave? They must have; the place is still standing!”

Sid had to laugh. “Your dad is playing pool, and your mom is tending bar over there.”

“Mom first, then,” Andrew decided. “Jesus Christ, do I need a drink—or twelve.” He led Sid over to the bar, where he exclaimed loudly, “What's a guy got to do around here to get a drink?”

“Sasha!” Elisabeth put down a bottle and darted around the bar, where she gave her son a kiss on each cheek and a big hug. “How are you, darling?”

“Better. I'd be better still if you plied me with liquor.” He gestured. “What are you mixing?”

“Your grandmother's potion.”

“Really?” Then, lowering his brows, “Did you put enough lemon juice in?”

She swatted him. “Don't presume to lecture your mother. Come and try one.” She went back behind the bar, and Andrew—and Sid—moved closer, Andrew greeting Geno and the others. The rookie, who, Sid noticed, got both a greeting and a clap on the shoulder, obligingly shifted so Andrew was next to the tray of shot glasses.

The rookie muttered to Sid, “Is he really going to drink one of those? I had the same reaction you did.”

Sid shrugged. “Maybe this one is different. She said it was his grandmother's recipe. I think.”

The rookie looked unconvinced. Which Sid could understand.

Andrew picked up one of the glasses, said what Sid assumed was a Russian toast, and tossed the shot back. He closed his eyes, in evident pleasure.

“Mom, you haven't lost your touch.”

“Enough lemon juice?” she teased.

“Perfect.” He picked up another one and downed it as quickly as the first. Putting the empty on the bar, he sighed deeply, and said, “I may just live after all.” He picked up the tray and offered it around. Everybody but Sid and the rookie took one, so they had the best view as everybody drank, and then, with the notable exception of Geno, started coughing, gasping, and/or wheezing. Geno, though, licked his lips, and exclaimed hoarsely, “This true Russian recipe! Is the best!”

Elisabeth held up her own glass. “That it is, Zhenya; that it is!”

Andrew quirked an eyebrow at his mother. “Zhenya already? Do I need to go tell Dad he's got a rival?”

Elisabeth smirked. “If Zhenya's lucky, your father will offer to wrestle him for me.” She and Andrew started laughing like loons; Sid had no idea what was so funny, but since that wasn't exactly a new thing for him, he ignored it.

When he'd wound down, Andrew, Sid—and the rookie—made their way over to the pool table, where Daniel was trying to enlist another victim. He broke off when he saw Andrew.

“Sasha!” The two men hugged, and Daniel kissed his son on the cheek, which made Sid and the rookie exchange startled glances. “It's been too long!”

“Dad, we saw each other about two weeks ago.”

“That's still too long!”

Andrew gave his father another hug. “I missed you too. Sorry I had to beg off.”

“Pffft.” Daniel waved his hand dismissively. “You had to work. How'd it go?”

“All right, I guess. Better than it was, anyway.” Obviously changing the subject, Andrew asked, “So, did you enjoy the game?”

“It was wonderful! I can't wait to see another! Although I'm sure it won't be half as good as this one was. You should have seen Sidney, Sasha. . . .” And Daniel was off. Sid thought he should probably make an effort not to preen, but then decided he wasn't even going to try. And a meticulously applied elbow to the side wiped the smirk right off the rookie's face; Sid ignored the fact that it was quickly replaced by outright giggles.

By this point, Daniel had moved on to complaining that nobody else would play pool with him.

“That's because you didn't sweeten the kitty enough,” his son replied unsympathetically. “You always go for the show-off win too soon. Don't you ever learn?”

“But it's so much fun!” Daniel whined. And he sounded so much like Sid that Sid actually started. Andrew's eyes moved from one to the other, and then met the rookie's—who at least had the sense to turn away before the laughter started pouring out of him.

When Andrew was finished (and Sid was sure that his own dignified pose had much to do with Andrew finally remembering his manners), he said, wiping his eyes, “I think I need another drink. Sidney, would you mind asking Mom to make me something? And tell her you want a Zen Garden—that's the green one you liked. I'm going to see if I can drum up any new victims for Dad here.” With that, he strode over to the pool table and began talking up some game called “You Pick the Shot.”

**********

When Sid got back with the drinks, he caught Andrew's eye, and after Andrew gave him a “one minute” gesture, sat down at a table the rookie had commandeered. The rookie murmured his thanks as he accepted a beer, and they sat in silence for a little bit, until the rookie said abruptly, “I don't think my dad and me have kissed since I was, maybe, four or five.”

Sid thought for a second. He'd already been on the ice by the time he was four, so no. Back slaps—either congratulatory or exhorting—were more the order of things. He met the rookie's eyes, and shrugged.

The rookie raised his bottle to his lips, and then put it down without drinking. “Kind of hard to be jealous of him,” he said, jerking his head in Andrew's direction. “He's such a nice guy. Even when he's being an asshole, it's just 'cause I was an asshole first. And then . . . it's back to being nice. More nice than I probably deserved.” This time, he did drink. “But it's also kind of hard _not_ to be jealous of him, either. I mean, it's not so much that he's kind of famous, I guess, and it's not like he's the best looking guy in the world, either. It's just . . . he always looks like he's having fun. And watching his dad and his mom . . . get down, you know? Enjoying themselves? They're the same way. And maybe some of that is because of how rich they are . . .”

Rich? Sid was about to ask, but the rookie was on a roll.

“. . . but I don't think they give a flying fuck about that, actually. Even if my parents had all the money in the world, I can't imagine them ever looking at each other the way those two do. And then, seeing him and his dad . . . you know?” He gestured with his bottle. “The fucking love. And fuck the world if you're not supposed to kiss your dad when you're a grownup. You can tell they don't give a shit. What they give a shit about is . . . each other. They're family.” He took a deep gulp. “Okay. I'll shut up now.”

They both watched Andrew throw his head back and laugh, give his father a hug, and then hand his cue to somebody else. As he turned and headed their way, the rookie said, with half a smile on his face, “You know, the only thing that would make him better is if he played hockey.”

Sid raised his glass to the rookie. “Tell me something I don't already know.” And then he poured half of his Zen Garden down his throat.

**********

Andrew threw himself down in the chair next to Sid. “This for me?” he asked, pointing.

Sid nodded. “Your mother said you'd like it.”

“Well, she usually knows.” Andrew took a sip, and raised his eyebrows appreciatively. “Mmm. It's good. Strong, though.” He offered the glass. “Want to try?”

The rookie shook his head decisively. “You drank that other stuff like it was water, and I nearly passed out on it. If you say this one is strong, there's just no way.”

“It's a smart man who knows his limits. Captain Crosby?”

“Uh, no thanks. I think I'll stick with my Zen.”

“Okay.” Andrew took another sip. “I should probably eat something, if I expect to function tomorrow.”

Remembering past visits, Sid said, “Well, they do serve food here, but I don't know if you'll want to eat any of it. And I don't know if the kitchen is still open.” He craned his neck around—and saw Geno heading their way, bearing a large plate. Sid huffed out a laugh. “Looks like someone already anticipated you.”

“This for you,” Geno said, putting the plate down in front of Andrew. Sid stared at it; he wasn't even hungry and he wanted to dive in. Andrew could have the burger; there were a couple of onion rings that had Sid's name on them. Trying to be unobtrusive, he hitched his chair an inch or so closer.

“I can't eat that,” Andrew protested. Sid distinctly heard the rookie say under his breath, “I could!”; from the darting glance (and the twitch of his lips), Andrew had too.

Geno got his “immovable object” look on his face. “Your mama say, shut brain off and enjoy. You disobey mama?”

“Once or twice,” Andrew said dryly. “I confess, it never ended well.” He stared at the plate and then shrugged. He edged the steak knife out from under the fries, and then peered more closely at the plate. Smiling broadly, he cut the burger in half, then pulled the second plate out from under the first and handed it to the rookie.

“Help yourself,” he said, holding his plate and the fork out.

“You serious?”

“As a heart attack.” And then, mouth curved as if he were amused by an inside joke, he added, “If I eat all of this, I'll fart myself off the stage tomorrow.”

That surprised a laugh out of the three players. “Can't have that,” the rookie said, reaching over. Sid prepared to intervene, but fortunately the onion rings he'd earmarked escaped the rookie's predations. Andrew doused the remaining food with a lot of pepper and a much smaller amount of salt, and dug in.

As he chewed his first bite of burger, Andrew closed his eyes and moaned; Sid casually reached over and slipped the crispiest onion ring off the plate.

“God, that's good. I haven't had a burger in months.”

“Listen to mama,” Geno said, pulling over a chair.

“Most people do,” Andrew said, spearing a fry. “You having a good night, Zhenya?”

Geno nodded. “Like your parents very much. Your mama know good drinks. Plus, I smart enough not to play pool with papa.”

Andrew laughed as he slipped his fork through an onion ring and held it out. “Here, Sidney.”

Sid felt himself blushing a little, but took it anyway, ignoring the amused looks he was getting from his teammates. After he'd finished chewing, he asked the question that had been on his mind for a while, “Why do your parents call you Sasha?”

“It's short for Alexander. Which is my first name. I was named after my grandfather, but he was still alive then, so I was either called Sasha or Andrew, which is my second name.” He wiped his mouth, and went on, “When I wanted to try and have a singing career, I decided to use my middle names professionally—Singleton is Mom's maiden name. To try and stave off any bad press about my trading on my family to get ahead.”

The rookie nodded, but Sid and Geno exchanged puzzled glances. Andrew looked from one to the other.

“Uh, my parents did introduce themselves to you guys, right?”

“Elisabeth and Daniel,” Geno nodded.

“Oh.” Andrew took a sip of his drink, and then set his glass down deliberately. “My parents' last name is Copley.”

“Copley?” Geno repeated.

“'Like the Square,'” the rookie put in helpfully. “You guys must have seen the ads.”

Geno looked at Sid questioningly, and Sid shrugged. Maybe he had.

Andrew, seemingly _very_ amused, tried to hide his smile by taking another bite of his burger, but the rookie gave them an incredulous look. “How can you not know. . . ? Oh, never mind.” Turning back to Andrew, he asked, “Did it work? Not using the name, I mean?”

“For a little while,” Andrew said. “After I won my first competition, my career started to take off quite quickly, and people figured it out. It's not as if I was trying to hide it, really. But it was important for me to try and be heard on my own merits at the beginning. Of course, I'm not denying that coming from money didn't help. I could study with the best teachers, or go to Europe for specialized training, and not have to worry about surviving. But I like to think that I worked extra hard to prove that I really was talented, not just some rich kid playing around for a hobby.”

People over by the pool table started cheering, and they all looked over to see Daniel jumping up and down and waving his pool cue over his head.

“Is that what you guys call a celly?” Andrew asked.

The rookie snickered. “Only if you're Patrick Kane.”

Geno and Sid laughed.

**********

Andrew wiped his mouth and fingers, and tossed the napkin onto the plate. “Okay. I hate to eat and run, guys, but I think it's time for me to head out.” He pushed his chair back and stood up. “Let me go say bye to Mom and Dad.”

The rookie stood up too, and held his hand out. “Thanks for sharing, Andrew.”

“You're welcome. You heading home? Need a ride?”

“Nah, I'm good.” He looked at Sid and Geno. “See you tomorrow, guys.” He followed Andrew over to the bar.

Sid glanced at his watch. “I think I'll leave too.”

“It still early,” Geno protested, but he stood up and headed for the men's room.

Sid watched the rookie say something first to Elisabeth, then to the guys around the bar, and then head towards the pool table; Sid couldn't help but be pleased by his politeness. He also watched Andrew and his mother hug, and then, when Andrew stepped back, saw Elisabeth place her palm against his cheek and say something. Andrew gave her a sweet smile, and she reached up, pulled his head down, and kissed him on the forehead. Then, as he turned away, she smacked his ass, making him yelp. She laughed at him, and putting her arm through his, walked along with him.

“Is he leaving so early?” Daniel, presumably alerted by the rookie, was standing next to their table, pool cue dangling from one hand. “Are you leaving?” he asked accusingly as Andrew strode up to them.

“Yup.”

“You can't leave yet; the bar doesn't close for at least an hour. Tell him, Lis.”

“I'm not as young as you, Dad. Some of us need our sleep.”

“But we haven't played together yet.” Daniel was pouting.

Andrew rolled his eyes. “You'll survive.”

“You,” Daniel said, “are an unnatural child.”

“I am, aren't I,” Andrew said cheerfully. “Give me a hug, old man.”

Daniel complied, and then said, “Well, if you have to go, go.”

Elisabeth added, “Take the car, darling; ask Henry to come back and get us after. He'll need to drop Sidney and Zhenya off at their cars too.”

“Will do.”

Sid opened his mouth to protest, and then decided not to waste the effort. Daniel pulled him into an exuberant hug.

“So nice meeting you, Sidney! Thanks for everything.”

“I'm pretty sure I should be thanking you.”

Daniel waved him off. “I hope to see more of you—both on and off the ice.”

Elisabeth nodded in agreement. “It was truly a great pleasure, Sidney.” She put her hand on Sid's cheek for a moment; it felt . . . nice. “Be well.”

“Uh, you too.”

Geno was back, waiting his turn. He took both of Elisabeth's hands in his, and said something in Russian that sounded heartfelt. She replied, then leaned up and kissed him on both cheeks. She asked him something, and Geno shook his head.

“Sid? When we play Boston next?”

“I'm not sure?”

“Well, whenever it is. Daniel, I think we should have the team over for a party next time they're in town.”

Daniel looked thrilled. “Of course!”

Elisabeth nodded. “Sidney, you'll let Sasha know.” And that was definitely not a question. “Then have someone from your office call me to discuss logistics.”

And that seemed to be that, Andrew's quizzical look at his parents notwithstanding. Sid wondered, for about the fiftieth time since September, how people learned to raise only one eyebrow.

**********

When they were seated in the car, Andrew told them, “I can't thank you guys enough for taking care of my parents; I'm sorry I foisted all that on you at the last minute.”

“Uh, we were going to play the game anyway,” Sid said, which made Andrew laugh.

“You know what I mean, Sidney. You didn't have to take them out to dinner, or out for drinks after.”

Geno leaned forward. “Is no problem. Good to spend time with. Fun.”

“Plus, I think they took care of all the drinks,” Sid said dryly.

“Probably,” Andrew laughed. “But believe me: they had a great time. They don't go out very often, and when they do, it's usually for business, and they have to act all business-y. Or at least, they try to. It was great to see them relax. Plus, you seem to have two new fans.”

The car pulled over, and Henry got out. Andrew peered through the window.

“Well, this is me. Thanks again, guys.” He got out of the car, and Geno pushed Sid, hissing, “We get out too and say goodbye.”

So they did, and with a final, “See you soon, I hope,” Andrew gave them both brief hugs and walked into the hotel. Geno gave Sid a look of utter disbelief, and muttering in Russian, clambered back in the car.

“What?” Sid groused as Henry pulled back into traffic.

“Why?” was Geno's response.

“Why? Why what?”

“Why you not stay with Andrew tonight?” Geno said exasperatedly.

“What? Why would I?”

Geno rolled his eyes. And said something rude in Russian. Which Sid knew the meaning of, probably because Geno used it so often. To refer to him.

“Geno. Shut up.”

“Sid. . . .”

“Geno. We're not talking about this again.”

“Okay, we no talk. I talk, you listen.”

“Geno!”

“Sid. Why you be stupid? It obvious you really like Andrew.”

“I like a lot of people,” Sid retorted.

Geno snorted. “No, you don't.”

Which, okay. That was pretty fair. But still. . . .

“Whatever.” Geno looked unimpressed, so Sid tried a different tack. “Did you see him ask me?”

Rolling his eyes, Geno said, “Sid. You talk with Andrew yet? You try to figure out what's going on?”

Trust Geno to ask the question Sid most wanted to avoid. Sid just shook his head sullenly. Geno, clearly frustrated, opened his mouth to say something—but didn't. He studied Sid intently for a minute, and then the expression on his face changed. After a while, he said, “Sid. You ever . . . not with hockey player?”

Sid could feel his face flame. But this was Geno, and he really had nothing to lose, so, with his eyes fixed firmly on the partition separating them from Henry, he answered.

“No.”

“Ah.”

After the silence had persisted for a while, Sid chanced a peek, and saw Geno, his forehead creased in thought. After another minute, Geno nodded.

“Sid. I think you right. And I wrong. Now, and other day.”

Well, that was unexpected. But. . . . “Right about what?” Sid asked, a little suspiciously.

“Right to take slow. Is good, need to be sure.” He nodded once or twice.

Sid was now fairly certain Geno was being sincere and not mocking him, but since he wasn't at all certain what Geno actually meant, he asked, “Sure about what?”

“Other day, I talk about what Andrew do. Is wrong. Should talk about you—is big step, what you do.”

Sid opened his mouth to ask, “What am I doing?” when Geno seemed to read his face again.

“You dating. I not know you never do before.”

Sid felt his jaw drop. “Dating? What the fuck, Geno? I'm not _dating_!”

Geno frowned. “Maybe dating not right word. In Russian, word is. . . .” He grimaced, pulled out his phone and started stabbing buttons. Finally, he stared at the screen, and said tentatively, “Wooing? That a word?”

“Yes, that's a word. But it . . . it isn't. . . .” Sid thought his head was going to explode. “It's not the _right_ word. I'm not dating, and I'm definitely not wooing, for fuck's sake!” Was he?

“Then what you doing, Sid?” Without waiting for a response, Geno started ticking things off on his fingers. “You invite strange guy to breakfast. You go to concert, and not popular concert like Lady Gaga, but opera concert. You bring him out with team, you go to house for dinner, you spend night, for maybe first time ever. You listen to him sing opera and you make _team_ listen too. You meet parents, you take out to dinner that _you_ pay for. You take food off his plate, and you let him _feed_ you.” Geno held up his hands, with all ten fingers outstretched. “You want more, I count on toes. Now answer question, Sid. What you doing, if not dating and not wooing?”

Sid would have paid a great deal of money for another Zen Garden right then. Or better, a pitcher of them. But since that wasn't going to happen. . . . He let his shoulders drop as he slumped back against the seat cushions.

“I don't know?” he said weakly.

Geno reached over and patted his arm consolingly. “You smart, Sid. But sometimes you blind.”

 


	7. Chapter 7

The first surprise Sid got the next morning was seeing Andrew's parents' car—well, the car they'd been riding in—in the parking area at Consol. The second surprise was that when Sid peered in the partially open window, he saw Andrew's mother in the back seat, talking on her phone. When she saw him, she smiled, and held up one finger. Sid shifted awkwardly, kind of wishing he'd gone the other way, but nonetheless waited as she ended the call. Which she did immediately, before swinging open the door.

“Good morning, Sidney! Did you sleep well?”

“I did,” Sid said, which wasn't the biggest lie he'd ever told. “Did you?”

“Soundly, but not nearly enough!” Elisabeth said, her eyes twinkling. “I'm getting far too old for late nights of dissipation.”

Before he could stop himself, Sid rolled his own eyes. “I'd be willing to bet you're in better shape this morning than most of the guys.”

“I never bet on a sure thing,” Elisabeth said with a straight face. “Unless, of course, it's a sure thing in my favor.” She laughed, and Sid had to join in.

“You're probably wondering why we're here.” Which, okay, yes. “Marc-André invited Daniel to watch the team practice, which Daniel very much wanted to do. He's inside already, but I needed to make a few calls first.” She grinned. “I know my people are very capable, but it's always nice to check in. And once I finish, I can enjoy the rest of the day without feeling guilty. Tell me, Sidney: are you going to Sasha's opening?”

“Uh, no. We're playing that night.” He shifted on his feet. “I thought about maybe going to one of the other shows, but when I asked him, he said not to come. I think he was really bothered by the woman they had to replace.” He hesitated, then gave a mental shrug and continued, “I told him that I would probably only pay attention to him anyway, but he still said no.”

Patting him on the arm, Elisabeth said, “Well, I'm sure he appreciated that. He told us the same thing, by the way—about not going.”

Sid was confused. “You're not? But isn't that why you came to Pittsburgh?”

Elisabeth shook her head. “When Sasha tells us not to come, we listen. No, we had some business in Philadelphia. Since that woman's now been replaced, Sasha may let us sit in on the dress rehearsal, which is this afternoon. But we need to get back home this evening.”

Rehearsal. Sid thought about that for a minute. “Maybe . . . do you think . . . I could come with you?”

“Why not, if Sasha says we can come? It all depends on that. If he says yes, then by all means, come if you like.” Her smile deepened. “I understand that opera is a . . . newly-acquired . . . interest of yours.”

Flushing a little, Sid said, “Uh, yeah. Andrew's influence, I guess.”

Elisabeth's smile was now much more of a smirk, but she didn't say anything, so Sid went on, “I still know next to nothing about it, but I like a lot of the things he's . . . recommended, I guess.”

“I'm not surprised. I was struck, last night, how much your game and opera—good opera, mind you—have in common. Although the specifics vary, both are, fundamentally, a quest for triumph—on any number of levels. You and your team push yourselves to the utmost of your abilities, just as any good singer does, out of a desire to win, to be the best. To make an audience gasp, and wonder, 'How do they do that?' . . . and of course, to cheer. And the game itself, or the plot? Struggle and conflict everywhere, and always, an undercurrent of danger and the possibility of violence, threaded through the entire production.” She paused before adding, “And of course, both are nothing without emotion—whether it be the joy of victory, or the agony of defeat.”

A little uncomfortable with the feelings her words stirred in him, Sid tried to deflect. “Uh, I'd rather have the first one, for sure.”

Elisabeth eyed him levelly. “Who wouldn't?”

Nobody with a brain, so Sid didn't bother answering. Instead, he said, “You know, one of the tags on the music player Andrew gave me is 'Agony of Defeat.' I wish he'd called it something else, since it's the first one on the list. And 'Victory' is the last.”

“Well, victory coming at the end makes perfect sense to me, but beginning with the idea of defeat? No, that will never do.” And she seemed serious. “We'll have him change it. Or Daniel can, I'm sure.” She laughed. “Daniel was so pleased when Sasha told him how much you—and the team—liked the player. Did Sasha tell you that the tag browser feature was his idea?”

“No, really?”

She nodded. “The idea of tagging music files isn't new, of course, but Sasha suggested many refinements. If Sasha hadn't gone into singing, I'm quite certain he'd working right next to his father. As it is, he's one of our favorite testers.” She grinned widely. “Of course, he's such a perfectionist, some of our developers run and hide when he comes in for a meeting.”

Sid had to laugh. “And I'm sure you don't find that useful at all, do you?”

“Certainly not.” And then she batted her eyelashes at him.

**********

Sid walked into the locker room much later than usual, since he did the courteous thing and escorted Elisabeth out front. He took one look around, and rolled his eyes; fragile didn't even begin to describe the way most of the guys looked. He looked for Geno but didn't see him hanging around; he did, however, see the rookie, who was trying to hide his amusement as he finished putting on his skates. Their eyes met, and the rookie grinned openly.

“Morning, Sid!” he said. Loudly. Very loudly. Sid distinctly saw everybody on the fourth line shudder; trying to keep a straight face, he returned the greeting at the same volume.

“Ready for practice?” he asked. This time, he heard groans. “I think Coach has something special planned for today.” The groans became moans. Piteous moans.

“Great! Can't wait!” The rookie adroitly side-stepped a roll of tape somebody hurled at him, and beamed at Sid. “Got to get the old adrenaline pumping, right, Sid?”

“Absolutely. Isn't that right, guys?” He paused, and then said, a little louder, “Right, guys?”

A couple of guys managed something approximating agreement; Tanger muttered something that Sid thought meant “eat shit and die.” Judging from the smirk on the rookie's face, he was right. Sid said to the rookie, “I was glad to see you thank Daniel and Elisabeth for the drinks last night; I hope everybody did.” He paused for a beat, and then added, “But if you didn't, you can do it right after practice. Both of them are in the stands.”

Nealer, whose head was practically on his knees, and who hadn't moved at all during any of this, slowly straightened up; his face was the color of old skim milk. “That woman isn't human. She can't be.”

Geno breezed in at that moment, took one comprehensive glance around the room, and started laughing. Loudly.

**********

Practice started off abysmally at first, of course, but got better surprisingly quickly. Coach had decided to shake up the lines a little, which wasn't all that unusual; what was unusual was what happened when he put the rookie on Sid's line. He'd been there before, during training camp, and once or twice in practice right after he'd been called up the first time, but not since. If Sid had had to characterize his play at the time (Coach hadn't asked, and Sid hadn't volunteered), he would have said something like “over-thinking” or “second-guessing.” Not today. Today, he would say “instinctual,” and by the time practice was over, Sid was . . . pleased.

Coach called him over at the end and asked him, “How did you know?”

Sid wiped the sweat off his forehead. “I didn't.”

“Then why . . . why did you suggest before practice that I try him on your line?”

Shifting a little, Sid said, “I . . . wondered. Geno said something about him needing confidence. And I think . . . he's got more of that now.” He stopped there.

Coach grunted. “Well, he's got enough smarts not to get shit-faced, at least. Unlike the rest of them.” He rubbed his chin. “Today was good. Very good. We'll try this again tomorrow. After that . . . well, we'll see.”

Sid nodded. “Thanks, coach.” He skated off.

After he'd changed, Sid found Daniel and Elisabeth chatting with a bunch of the guys. As he approached, he heard Daniel say that there was no need at all to thank them; Elisabeth added that it had been their pleasure, and from the finality in her tone, somehow Sid didn't think that she'd need to repeat herself.

She looked up when Sid joined them. “Ah, Sidney. I spoke with Sasha, and he said it's fine with him if we attend this afternoon. Do you want to join Daniel and me?”

“Um . . . if you're sure it's okay.”

“I can't think of any reason why it wouldn't be.” She turned to the others. “Would any of you like to come too?”

The guys exchanged glances, and then a surprising number of them said yes. Well, Sid was surprised; Elisabeth didn't seem to be. And neither did Daniel, actually; he just pulled out his phone, and when he got connected, started asking about suggestions for a decent place to have lunch.

Elisabeth, meanwhile, suggested that Sid invite Nathalie to join them—for lunch, if possible, but also for the rehearsal. So Sid dutifully called Nathalie, who accepted eagerly.

A couple of hours later—after a very enjoyable lunch enlivened by a mini-seminar on aerodynamics as he saw it at work in hockey (Daniel had even pulled a protractor out of his pocket and talked about the interplay of wind force and different angles as they affected balance, speed, and turning)—the group entered the Benedum Center. Andrew had clearly alerted the staff that his parents were coming; equally clearly, nobody was expecting a good portion of the Pens to show up. Sid thought for a minute that there might be a problem, but Elisabeth got it straightened out with a few words and a smile; for perhaps the fifth time in under a day, Sid wondered exactly how she did things like that. (He also wondered if there was anything she could do about the many people taking pictures of them with their phones as they were led through the lobby and into the theater itself, but reminded himself that even superheroes had their limitations.)

Most of the seats seemed to already be filled with either students or senior citizens, but a substantial portion of the center section seemed to be reserved for people like them. Sid found himself sitting between Nathalie and Daniel; the rookie, whom Daniel seemed to have adopted on the walk over from the restaurant, sat between him and Elisabeth, with Geno, Nealer, and the rest beside her—except for Flower, who was on Nathalie's other side.

“Elisabeth tells me this is your first actual opera,” Daniel said to Sid, who nodded. “Well, I suspect you're in for a treat. I can't speak for the rest of the cast, of course, but Sasha is wonderful as Nemorino. Do you know the story?”

“Uh, no.”

“Well, it's easy enough to figure out.”

Just then, the lights went part-way down, and somebody walked out in front of the curtain. He introduced himself as the director, thanked everybody for coming, and told them to enjoy themselves, but not to be alarmed if things went wrong and they had to stop in mid-scene. He left the stage, the lights went all of the way down, and then the conductor appeared: the musicians were in front of the stage this time, it seemed, instead of on top of it. Everybody clapped, and then the opera began.

Not five minutes into it, Sid decided that Daniel had been right: the story was pretty obvious—and the fact that a translation of what was being sung appeared above the stage bore that out. But what Sid hadn't been prepared for was how funny some of it was—and, especially, how funny Andrew was. Nor was he prepared for how quickly things turned serious, and how Andrew changed from being a hopeful lover to having those same hopes dashed. When the first half ended, Sid literally found himself on the edge of his seat. Everybody in the theater clapped loudly as the lights went up for intermission.

Daniel turned to him. “What do you think, Sidney?”

“I . . . don't know.” Sid shook his head, trying to clear it. “I mean . . . Andrew's great. And everybody else seems good too. But . . . it's so . . . alive—if that makes any sense.”

Daniel cocked his head at Sid, looked at him searchingly, and then nodded. “It makes perfect sense. To me, anyway. But be warned: I'm often told I don't make any sense at all.” He grinned, and then stood up. “Excuse me—I need to find the men's room.”

Sid decided he did too—and so did Flower and some of the others. As they walked, Flower said, “Pretty good shit, eh, Sid? You know, I thought I'd be bored out of my skull, but I'm not.”

“Me either,” Nealer chimed in. “Andrew cracked me up. The way he tried to piss off that soldier, all with a big smile on his face—how many times have we seen chirping like that?” Sid and the others laughed.

“You know,” Nealer went on, “we should really come up with a nickname for him. His parents call him Sasha.”

But Geno immediately vetoed this idea. “Sasha family name, not nickname.”

But Nealer was undeterred. “Well, we should totally think of something. Hey, Daniel! What would be a good nickname for Andrew?”

Daniel thought for a few seconds, and then laughed. “One of his friends in prep school called him Double A—after his initials, you know? Which he tolerated, for a little while. Until his cousin Gordon called him Battery. Once. And only once.” He laughed again, remembering.

“What did he do?” Flower asked with a smirk, nudging Geno with his shoulder.

“If Gordon had been wearing a life vest, I think Sasha would have thrown him off the boat. But since he wasn't, Sasha told him, 'If you don't promise never to call me that again, you'll regret it.' And Gordon just laughed at him. Gordon,” Daniel confided, shaking his head, “is not particularly intelligent. So Sasha shrugged and said, 'You'll see.' And that night, he hacked into Gordon's computer and deleted all of his porn.”

Everybody started cracking up. Beaming as he moved to one of the urinals, Daniel tossed over his shoulder, “It was one of my proudest moments as a parent.” He sounded absolutely sincere. And Sid actually didn't doubt it for a minute.

**********

When part-way through the second period, Andrew came stumbling back on stage, clutching the bottle of his magic potion, and seemingly completely shit-faced, the whole audience started laughing, and Sid couldn't help it: he let out one of his goose laughs. Andrew didn't react, of course, but he had to have heard (how could he not?), and about a minute later, Sid noticed Andrew was holding the bottle with both hands as if it were a stick as he reeled and spun around the other singers. Sid was sure he wasn't imagining it, and he could feel himself grin widely.

And a little while after that, Andrew was alone on stage, and when the music started, Sid recognized it as something Andrew had sung at his concert. And even though the music and (he guessed) the words were the same, somehow it seemed so, so different this time: so much _more_. And when he finished singing, the audience just went berserk. Which they had at the concert, too, so Sid didn't know if the difference lay with Andrew or . . . with him.

And after that, everything wrapped up kind of quickly, and of course Andrew got the girl, and at the very end, with the other characters cheering, Andrew lifted his co-star and spun her around, and they laughed, looking into each others' eyes, as the curtain came down. And even as Sid clapped, along with everybody else, a well of _feeling_ surged in him, and he had to bite his lip to calm down.

He kind of guessed he knew what that meant.

**********

Sid blinked when the lights went up after the curtain calls; most of the people in front of them were heading for the aisles to leave, but Daniel and Elisabeth were still sitting down, so Sid didn't move either.

“What did you think, Sid?” Nathalie asked him.

“I thought it was great,” Sid said honestly. “Did you like it?”

“Very much. I'm so happy you invited me.”

“Uh, I can't take credit for that. Elisabeth is the one who told me to call you. I mean, I would have, if I'd thought of it. But I didn't.”

Nathalie rolled her eyes a little. “Don't be so hard on yourself, Sid.” But her voice was fond, and she patted his arm, which felt nice. She then turned to Flower, and started to ask him something, but Sid didn't hear what, because Daniel said his name.

“Are you interested in going backstage? Or do you and the other boys want to head out?”

Sid thought for a second, and then shrugged. “I don't know about the rest of the guys, but I'd like to see Andrew. But . . . I don't know how these things work. Does he get . . . I don't know, a debriefing afterwards? I don't want to be in the way.”

Elisabeth, who'd leaned forward to listen, shook her head. “If Sasha needs to work, he'll be the first to tell us, so don't worry about that.” She looked around. “I think . . . yes, we should head over there.” She stood up and, once they all got into the aisle, led the way. Well, she and Daniel, because he had his arm around her.

“They're very sweet together,” Nathalie said to him.

Sid nodded, and then said, in as expressionless a tone as he could manage, “And they love Andrew a lot. It shows.”

Nathalie gave him a penetrating look, but instead of saying anything, she merely slipped her arm through his.

**********

Backstage, things were pretty hectic, although Sid got the impression that it was a good hectic, and not a bad hectic. Andrew had his back towards them; he and the other main singers were listening to the director. He half-expected Elisabeth and Daniel to walk over and join them, but then realized that of course they wouldn't do that. So Sid and the others stood off to the side, trying to stay out of the way of all the people running back and forth.

It was the guy who'd played the soldier who saw them first; he nudged Andrew and jerked his head in their direction. Andrew glanced their way and did a double-take when he saw all of them; he smiled broadly, though, and waved, before turning back to the director. Who'd been joined by the conductor.

Some of the backstage workers started drifting over, and before long, Sid and the others had attracted their own circle, which at least kept them busy until Andrew came over. He gave his parents each a big hug and kiss, greeted Nathalie warmly, and then turned to the guys—but before he could say anything, Nealer started to clap, and then the others joined in.

Even as he rolled his eyes, Andrew blushed a little. He told Nealer to stuff it, which made them all laugh, but he accepted their congratulations with evident pleasure.

“I knew Sidney was here—I heard that laugh of his!—but I had no idea about the rest of you. Thanks so much for coming! I hope you enjoyed yourselves.”

“Dude, seriously. It was great.”

By this point, the other singers and the director—and the conductor—had come over. The soldier guy had evidently met Andrew's parents before, but he introduced the others to them. And then, his co-star turned to the guys, and her eyes went right to the rookie.

“Tommy? Tommy Standish?”

The rookie, who looked absolutely shocked at being singled out, said, “Uh, yeah?”

“Don't worry; we've never met. But I'm Paul Merton's sister.”

“No way!” The rookie's face lit up. “How is Paulie?”

“He's good. Last time we talked, he told me you'd been called up by the Pens; I was going to see if I could make it to a game.”

“Yeah? That'd be great. Oh, hey: let me introduce you. . . .”

After he'd said hello, Sid managed to edge his way over to Andrew, who was shaking his head a little.

“What?” Sid asked.

Andrew looked over at the others, opened his mouth, and then said, “I'll tell you later. When I can laugh out loud.”

“I'll hold you to that.” They moved over to where Nathalie was talking with Daniel and Elisabeth.

“I'm assuming that your Adina is Canadian,” Nathalie said to Andrew.

Andrew's brows went up. “I believe she is, actually. What makes you think so?”

Nathalie just shrugged. “You learn to recognize the signs. Right, Sid?”

Sid glanced over and then nodded. “If she's not at the stats stage yet, she will be soon.”

**********

Sid had to endure having his picture taken a couple more times—at the (insistent) request of the company manager, there was even a group picture of the cast, Andrew's parents, and Nathalie and the Pens, which Andrew had objected to (so politely that Sid could tell he was furious), but Sid told him it was fine. Andrew looked like he was going to protest further, but Sid had the (really brilliant) idea of saying that Andrew should stand next to Geno, since if Ovechkin ever saw the picture, he'd have an aneurysm. Andrew laughed and gave in—and told the photographer to make sure he sent him a copy.

After that, the group started to disband. Flower had to go home, as did Nathalie; the other guys left one by one. Geno asked if Sid wanted him to stay longer, but Sid told him no—and then rolled his eyes at the approving look Geno gave him. The rookie was the last of the guys to head out; he was going to go have a drink with the soprano. Sid asked him if he could plan to stay for a while after morning skate the next day, and the rookie agreed readily enough (without even asking why, which Sid appreciated). Daniel and Elisabeth left for the airport shortly after that; both of them hugged Sid as well as Andrew, and Elisabeth informed Sid that they expected to see him soon. Sid managed to say something agreeable in return without, he hoped, acting as if he were seven years old.

The moment his parents left (out of the stage door, where day driver Samuel had been replaced by Henry again), Andrew grabbed Sid's arm and started tugging him.

“Come on, Sidney. You mind hanging out in my dressing room? I stink, and I need a shower. And then I need to eat. You up for that?”

“Sure,” Sid shrugged, in an effort to hide his pleasure at Andrew's eagerness.

“Great!” Andrew smiled at him as he threw open the door. “You figure out where we should go while I'm in the shower.” He picked up a water pitcher and made an inquiring gesture at Sid, who shook his head. Andrew filled a glass, downed it, and then refilled it. “But first,” he wiped his mouth, sat down in front of the lighted mirror, and started taking his makeup off, “tell me what you thought of the opera. I have been _busting_ to ask you that.”

“Really?”

“Well, yeah.” Andrew said it as if it were obvious. “It's a big deal.” He laughed, a little wickedly, and turned to look directly at Sid, instead of through the mirror. “You just lost your opera cherry, _mon oie_ ; tell me _everything_. Was it good for you?”

Sid felt his face flush bright red, and Andrew laughed again—this time, delightedly.

“That good, huh?” He laughed again, and Sid had to join in. He sat down in the chair by the side of the table, and tried to collect his thoughts. He decided he'd start with the most important.

“You were really, really good.”

Andrew grinned. “Well, thanks very much, Sidney; it's always a pleasure to hear that. But I didn't ask you to tell me what you thought of  _ me _ ; I wanted to hear what you thought about the  _ opera— _ you know, the whole experience.”

Oh. Sid considered what to say. “I liked it. I liked it a lot. You know, your dad asked me what I thought at the end of the first period . . . I mean act,” he corrected himself, as Andrew chuckled, “and I told him that I was surprised at how alive it was.” He paused. “I'm not sure even now what that means, but that's what it felt like.”

Andrew's brow was creased. “Do you mean alive as in not boring, or alive as in full of action? Although maybe that's asking the same thing.”

“I think,” Sid said slowly, “that I mean alive as in . . . um, immediate. It was . . . ugh, I don't know . . . it was  _ real _ somehow. I mean, I knew it was you, Andrew, up there singing. But sometimes, I kind of forgot that, and thought it was the other guy, Nemo or whatever, who was. Does that make any sense?” 

After sitting in silence for a few seconds, Andrew said, in an extremely serious tone, “Sidney, that may be the nicest compliment I've ever been given. Thank you.” He reached over and squeezed Sid's hand. Which felt really, really nice. But now Sid felt a little embarrassed.

“I didn't say anything much. Come on, Andrew: you have to know how good you were out there.”

Andrew opened his mouth, closed it, and then opened it again. “Well, yeah. I was good. There were a couple of things I think I could have done better, but nobody else would even have noticed them. Probably. But there's a big difference between being technically proficient and being . . . I don't know, _compelling_ enough to make someone in the audience forget that what he's hearing—and seeing—isn't real.” He paused before adding, “Sidney, I know we haven't known each other all that long, but I have the very strong impression that you are extremely . . . uh, reality-based, if you'll excuse the term. So, believe me when I tell you that what you said meant something very special to me.”

“Uh, okay.” Sid shifted a little, but couldn't help the smile that crossed his face. Especially since Andrew now wore one too.

Andrew turned back to the mirror. “So, leaving me aside: what else did you like? And what do you think the guys thought? How'd they end up coming, anyway? Did Mom and Dad shanghai them?”

Sitting up straight, Sid said, a little huffily, “They did no such thing, Andrew. Your mom did ask the guys, but all she did was ask. Once. The ones that came decided to on their own. The way I did; I _asked_ your mom if I could come. Long before she asked the guys.” He frowned directly at mirror-Andrew's face.

There was a brief pause, and then Andrew swiveled in his chair; “Oh God, Sidney, I didn't mean to offend or insult you—or the guys. Truly.” He snorted a little, and added, “And I didn't mean to insult Mom and Dad either, but I guess I kind of did. I'll apologize to them later, but I'm apologizing to you now.”

Relaxing, Sid said, “Accepted. And actually,” he hesitated for a second, but then grinned and went on, “I've seen your parents—particularly your mom—in action now. Just a little bit, but enough to say, maybe you weren't insulting them. Maybe you were being . . . what did you say earlier? Uh, reality-based.” They both laughed, good humor restored.

Andrew threw the pads he'd been using into the wastebasket and stood up. “Let me jump in the shower, and then let's go eat: I'm starving.” He started to take off his costume, and as he turned to hang up the shirt he'd been wearing, Sid noticed something.

“Hey, you've got . . . a rash sort of thing. All over your back.”

“I do?” Andrew twisted, and tried to see in the mirror. “Shit, I do. Are those . . . bumps?” He sounded horrified. Sid stood up and took a closer look.

“Maybe. It's a little raised.” He ran his finger over part of Andrew's shoulder blade, where the color was most red, and felt Andrew shiver. Sid kind of felt like doing the same; Andrew's skin was warm, almost hot, and still kind of sweaty. And slick.

“Jesus.” Andrew stared for a moment more. “It's probably from the detergent they use. Or maybe the starch in the shirt; I was certainly sweating like a pig out there—that thing was plastered to me by the end. I need to let them know.” He snatched up the shirt and headed for the door. “Be right back.”

Sid poured himself a glass of water and sipped it as he waited, which wasn't for long. Andrew strode back in, followed by a woman who seemed to be apologizing. At great length. Of course, Andrew seemed to be apologizing too. When she paused for breath, at least.

“It's probably not a big deal,” he said. “But if you could maybe use something else?”

She started talking again, but Sid didn't pay attention, since Andrew was unceremoniously stripping his costume pants off. He bundled them up, handed them to the woman—who'd already gathered the other things hanging on the rack—while still talking—and herded her out the door, thanking her as he did so. He rested his forehead against the closed door for a second, and then took a deep breath.

“People are exhausting a lot of the time. You know?”

Sid snorted, and then tried to tear his eyes away from Andrew's ass before Andrew turned around completely. “People are exhausting most of the time, Andrew.” He paused; “I'm glad it's not just me that feels that way.”

“Believe me, it's not.” Andrew flipped the lights on in the bathroom; “I'll be quick,” he tossed over his shoulder.

“Take your time.”

Sid sipped the rest of his glass of water, thinking about how he wanted the rest of this evening to go. His mind kept skidding in different directions, some of which had the potential for great enjoyment, but most of which also had warning signs posted all over them. Fortunately, Andrew was true to his word, and came out of the bathroom before Sid's mind had become irretrievably lost in a vortex of paralyzing doubt and indecision. However, Andrew was also only wearing a towel wrapped around his waist, which, while it did very interesting things to certain parts of Sid, did absolutely nothing for his peace of mind.

Andrew in a towel was one of the most arousing things Sid had ever seen, and he let himself stare, if only for a second. Or two. Andrew, meanwhile, bent over his bag and pulled out some underwear, which, after dropping the towel, he put on. He seemed totally unconscious of his nudity, nor did he seem to be trying to be provocative. Or alluring. Well, he didn't seem to be _trying_ to be alluring. And Sid had a flash of insight: Andrew was at work. It was just like Sid in a locker room. That teased something in his brain, but before he could puzzle it out, Andrew asked him, “Sidney, have you thought about where to go for dinner?”

Sid mentally shook himself. “A little.”

“So what are our choices? Do you have a favorite place? One where they don't bother you a lot?” Andrew grimaced. “I don't really want to be social tonight.”

Sid peered at him. Andrew should have been flushed from his shower, but he actually seemed kind of pale. Well, his face, anyway; his back was still red. So unless he'd taken a cold shower. . . .

“Do you feel okay?” he asked.

“Other than being wiped, yeah.” Andrew pulled on a shirt. “It's been exhausting getting Caroline up to speed.”

Sid made up his mind. “Well, there's a couple of places the guys make me go to, and they're pretty good about seating us in the back. But if you want, we could just get some take out and go to my place.”

Andrew smiled happily. “That sounds perfect. And maybe we could watch a game?”

It was Sid's turn to smile.

**********

As they made their way to Sid's car, they wrangled pleasantly about what kind of food to get. Andrew claimed that his only stipulations were no dairy and lots of protein, and that as long as the protein wasn't red meat, he was fine with anything else. Sid countered by putting on the most skeptical look he was capable of, and said nothing until Andrew finally admitted, that okay, he probably had a few more requirements, but that they should start with those two.

“You mean three, don't you?” Sid smirked. “The Pens' nutritionist would love you, Andrew. Of course, you'd give the rest of us a bad name.”

“You have one already, I bet,” Andrew retorted. “Remember: I've seen you eat dessert. Desserts. Plural.”

“That,” Sid said with dignity, “was a special occasion.” And was rewarded by Andrew's bumping shoulders with him, and giving him that slow, eye-crinkling smile Sid sometimes thought about while waiting to fall asleep. He cleared his throat. “I like to think that I strike a reasonable balance on what I eat. There was a period where I completely toed the nutritional line. I existed on protein shakes. I ate seaweed. Nothing with any fat. Of course, nothing had any flavor, either.”

Andrew eyed him sideways. “I bet you still ate desserts.”

“I'm not answering that.” And they both laughed.

They finally agreed on Thai, and Sid started driving there as Andrew looked over the menu on his phone.

“How hungry are you?”

“I could eat,” Sid admitted. Which got him an eye roll of medium intensity.

“If I order four things, are you going to think I'm a pig?”

“No,” Sid said honestly, “I'm going to think you're hungry. You worked hard this afternoon.” Which for some reason made Andrew beam at him, so Sid gave himself a point.

“One last question: on a range of one to five stars, how spicy do you like your food?”

“Do they do decimals?”

“Enough said.” Andrew phoned in the order, which took a while. Sid didn't really pay attention, but he did hear Andrew say, “Andrew Copley.”

When he ended the call, Sid said curiously, “Why did you use that name?”

“Because this dinner isn't work-related, so it's going on my personal card, and that's the name on it.”

This time it was Sid who rolled his eyes. “Andrew. You are not paying for our food.” Andrew opened his mouth, but Sid kept on going. “I invited you. We are eating in my house. You made me dinner a couple of weeks ago. It's my turn.” He summoned the same Canadian look of stubbornness that had worked on Nathalie, and after a few seconds, Andrew threw his hands up and conceded. He ran his fingers through his hair, though, and Sid considered what he knew about Andrew. . . .

“And stop thinking you ordered too much.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.” Which, from the expression on his face, was a total lie.

“Yes, you do,” Sid said definitely. “You're thinking that you would never had ordered everything you did if you thought for a minute you wouldn't be paying for it.”

Andrew's frown slowly turned into a reluctant smile. “Busted!” he admitted.

Sid didn't think he had ever felt so self-satisfied about something that wasn't related to hockey.

“Stop looking so smug.”

The Canadian hockey goose uttered its call. Repeatedly.

 


	8. Chapter 8

As they pulled up at Sid's house, Andrew's eyebrows went all of the way up.

“You live here _alone_?”

Sid hunched his shoulders. “The house was . . . kind of a mistake.”

“It's just so huge! Especially for one person. But I'm sure it's great inside.”

“Uh, it's not. Remember, I told you? When I had dinner at your place?”

Andrew paused in gathering up the bags of food. “You said you hated your house. But I thought you were just exaggerating.”

Juggling the stuff from the liquor store, Sid opened the door and ushered Andrew in. Andrew took one look around, and started laughing.

“I guess you weren't. Jesus, Sidney; is this the warden's entrance?”

Sid had to laugh too. “No, that's actually worse.”

“Well, you can give me the whole tour later. Let's eat before I pass out.”

It turned out that the reason why there was so much food was because Andrew had ordered two of everything: one without spice, and one with. He discovered this when Andrew separated all of the containers into two piles and said, “The ones marked with a W are yours.”

“W? What's that mean?”

“It stands for wuss.”

Sid lobbed a bottle cap off the top of Andrew's head. Andrew just grinned and shook his head.

“I'll retaliate after supper. I'm too hungry to deal with chopsticks; may I have a fork? If you have more than one, that is.”

Sid tried to act offended as he stalked over to the silverware drawer. He didn't think it worked, though.

The food was really good; there was one thing with shrimp and another with pork, but it was mostly chicken and vegetables. Sid even tried a bite from one of Andrew's containers; it was probably the spiciest thing he had ever eaten, but even he couldn't deny that it had a lot of flavor—once he'd stopped sweating, anyway.

They talked easily about nothing important, just moving from topic to topic the way they did on the phone. And watching Andrew laugh when Sid described that morning's practice made Sid feel . . . good. Really good.

“Hey.” Andrew was waving his fork in front of Sid's face. “Where'd you go?”

“Just thinking.”

Andrew swallowed, then reached into his pocket. “A penny for them.”

Sid shook his head. “Save your money; it's not even worth a penny.” He gestured between them with his own fork. “I was just thinking how nice this is.”

“It _is_ nice,” Andrew agreed readily. “I'm really glad you suggested coming here; it's so much better than going out.”

“We have to do this again,” Sid said firmly. “You're in Pittsburgh for two more weeks, right?”

“A bit more, actually. I do have to go to New York one day, but otherwise, yeah. Unless I have to go home for any reason.” Andrew cocked a glance at Sid. “Do you have actual cooking equipment hidden somewhere?”

Sid gave him the finger. “Yes.”

Andrew looked unconvinced. “Well, if you'll show it to me, then maybe next time I'll cook. We certainly can't eat like this,” waving at the much-depleted containers, “very often. Too much sodium.”

Sid rolled his eyes, but said only, “You can look in every cabinet in here, if you want. But . . . you would really like to do that? Cook, I mean?”

“I would.” Andrew seemed sincere, and Sid . . . wasn't going to argue. Then Andrew grinned—his kind of evil grin. “I'll cook. And if the schedules work out—I can't remember yours right now—after my last performance, you'll take me out. For Italian food. Or maybe pizza. When I finish a run, and have nothing lined up for a few days, I go on a cheese binge; it's my way of rewarding myself.”

“It's a deal.” They smiled at each other, and Sid thought that this might be the perfect moment to maybe try and have that talk. But before he could think of an opening, Andrew pushed his chair back.

“Does this cottage have a bathroom?”

“Several,” Sid said dryly.

“Which one has the best reading material?”

Sid snickered. “Probably the one in my room.”

“Oh. Well, I'll just bring my phone with me. Which one should I use?”

“You can use mine.” Sid was shocked to discover that he actually meant that. “Seriously: upstairs, first room on the right.”

“Thanks.”

Sid poked through the cartons, taking another couple of bites, as he tried to figure out what to say. He'd just decided to defer anything until after they'd watched a game, when his own phone buzzed with a text with Geno.

 

> _i drive u in a.m._

 

Sid rolled his eyes, contemplated resisting, and then decided it wasn't worth the effort. He had just sent an OK, when a call came in from Taylor. He liked talking to his sister, and he figured Andrew would be a while, so he guessed it was okay to answer.

They exchanged their usual greetings that masqueraded as insults, and then Taylor got right to the point.

“Sid, I need your advice. Today at practice. . . .” And she was off. Sid listened carefully, because this was Taylor, so of course it was important, and it was about hockey, which meant it was interesting.

After Sid gave his opinion, Taylor launched into a much less interesting monologue about their father and mother, which Sid listened to in silence, but which distracted him enough that he didn't notice Andrew approaching until he reentered the kitchen saying his name.

“Oh, God; I'm sorry; I didn't know you were on the phone.”

Sid put the phone to his shoulder; “I'm talking to my sister; I'll be off soon.”

“Take your time; I'll just start cleaning up.”

“You don't have to. . . .” But Andrew was ignoring him and gathering things, so Sid went back to Taylor.

“Is that Geno?” Taylor demanded; “let me say hi.”

“It's not Geno. So no.”

“Who is it? Flower? Mario?”

“No. And no.”

“Then who is it?”

Sid suppressed a sigh. “It's my friend Andrew.”

“Andrew from the Hawks? Or Andrew from the Oilers? And when did you become friends with either of them?”

“It's neither. And I'm not.”

“Well, what team does Andrew play on?”

“He's not on any team, Taylor.”

“. . . .”

“Taylor? Did you hang up?”

“What do you mean, he's not on a team?”

“I mean, he's not on a team. He doesn't play hockey.” From the corner of his eye, Sid saw Andrew had stopped fussing with the food and was listening, trying not at all to hide the wide grin covering his face.

There was a brief silence from the phone, and then Taylor started laughing. Loudly. Sid held the phone away from his ear and winced. When he put it back, Taylor was saying,

“I cannot believe you think I would swallow that. You have a friend who doesn't play hockey? _You_?”

“It's true.”

“I don't believe it. I bet there's actually no one there; it was the TV. You know, you could just tell me you want to get off the phone; you've certainly done it before.”

“Ugh, Taylor. I'm not lying to you. And there is someone here. My friend Andrew.”

“Who is not a hockey player.”

“Correct. Can I go now?”

“No. Let me talk to him.”

“No. Absolutely not.” Sid stood up.

“Squid. Let me talk to him.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don't want you to talk to him. And he doesn't want to talk to you.”

“How do you know?”

“Taylor. . . .”

“How do you know, Sid? Ask him.”

“I'm not going to ask him!”

“Ask me what?” Andrew inquired, the laughter barely contained.

This was getting out of control. “My sister wants to talk to you. I told her you don't want to. So, please don't want to.”

“Of course I want to.” Andrew snatched the phone out of Sid's hand.

“Hello, Sidney's sister Taylor.”

“Hello, Andrew. You are Andrew?”

“I am. Sidney,” shoving his head away, “give me some space here.”

“I want to hear what she's saying to you!”

“Fine; I'll put it on speaker.”

When Taylor's voice came on, she was saying, “You're friends with my brother. And you don't play hockey.”

“Yes and yes.”

“Are you . . . no, wait. You must work for a hockey team, then.”

“I do not.”

“Are you a personal trainer, or something like that?”

“Nope.”

There was a pause, and then Taylor said triumphantly, “Oh, I bet I know! You're an ambassador from another planet.”

Andrew burst out laughing. “Definitely not. I have a mother and a father, and we were all born here on Earth. Sorry.”

“Damn. I was sure that was it. Because it has to be another reality if Sid has a friend. Who doesn't play hockey.”

“Well, he does, and I don't. Sidney, stop trying to grab the phone!”

“So what do you do?”

“Why do you need to know?”

“I just do!”

“She whines just like you.”

“Hey!”

“Hey!”

“Well, you do.”

“Shut up. Give me a hint.”

“A hint? Okay. I work in the performing arts.”

“The performing. . . ? Oh my God, you're a stripper!”

Andrew started laughing. Hysterically.

“Taylor!”

“Did Sid pick you up in a bar? Do you dance on a pole? Did he give you a big tip? No, wait: are you a _hooker_?”

“Taylor, for fuck's sake! Andrew, give me the phone!”

“Does my brother pay you? Ooh: is this like that movie? And you're Julia Roberts? I can't see Sid as Richard Gere, though.”

Andrew dropped to the floor and convulsed, howling continuously.

“What the hell is that noise? Andrew? Sid?”

By this point, the tears were rolling down Andrew's cheeks, and he was gasping for breath. Sid finally managed to snag the phone.

“What's going _on_ down there?”

“Jesus Christ, Taylor!” Sid was panting from exertion. He looked down at Andrew. Who was also panting. And kicking his heels against the floor. “I think you broke him.”

Taylor snorted. “Buy a tougher one next time, Squid.”

Sid just stared at the phone and shook his head. And then he started to snicker. Just a little. At first. Because this was his life.

And then Andrew lifted his head. And started, very unsteadily, to sing “Pretty Woman.”

It was not his finest performance. But somehow Sid didn't think he'd forget it any time soon.

**********

Some considerable time later, Andrew remarked to Sid, “If my parents ever meet your sister, they'll probably want to adopt her.”

Sid snorted. “They can have her.” He attempted to hide his smile by taking a swallow of his beer. Andrew reached over and poked him.

“You think she's great. Don't even try to deny it.”

Sid flopped back against the couch. “I guess I can't. She's really my favorite person in the world.”

“That's so nice.” Andrew held out his bottle and tipped it against Sid's. “Here's to the irrepressible Taylor Crosby.”

“ _Sal_ _û_ _t_. Do you have any sibs?”

“Nope. There's only me. I think Mom and Dad wanted more kids, and I would have loved having a little brother or sister, but it never happened.” He fell silent for a bit. “Dad told me once that they thought about adopting, but he just couldn't do it.”

“Why not?”

“Because of their money.” Andrew sighed. “He said that he couldn't stop thinking about all of the kids that they wouldn't have chosen. It just seemed unfair to all of them, and he felt that the guilt would haunt him. So they decided against it. Instead, they support a ton of children's charities.” He grinned. “I bet they get more fan mail than even you do!”

“Uh, maybe. I get a lot.” And a lot of the other kind too.

“But do you ever get any written in crayon? With stickers and glitter glued on?”

“Yes, yes, and . . . not that I can remember.” Andrew chuckled.

“I like it when the guys and I get to do kid stuff. The hospital visits can be sad, but the kids themselves are great.” Sid took another swallow. “You know, I can kind of understand where your dad's coming from. I get a ton of mail, and some of the stories are so . . . uh, bleak. We can only reach out to a really small number. Usually, they're on top of the moon, but, like, if the kid is in the hospital, you can see the other kids kind of wonder, “Why him? Why not me?” We try to include everybody, for sure, but kids are smart. They know what's going on.”

Andrew reached over and grasped Sid's hand. “You have a good heart, Captain Crosby.” He squeezed once more, and then let go. “That's part of your . . . well, job, yes, but also . . . position may be the best word, that I don't really experience. I suspect that very few little kids have meeting an opera singer on their bucket lists.”

Sid's hand was still tingling. “I'm sure some do,” he said stoutly.

Andrew's eyes crinkled. “Well, maybe they want to meet some _other_ opera singer; I'll have to ask around.” He glanced at his watch. “So, what game are we watching?”

Sid reached for the remote. “Well, the Caps are playing tonight. . . .”

“I would rather not.” In his most polite voice.

Sid snickered. “I didn't think so. You know, I bet you could freeze water with that tone.”

“Why, thank you. _Stronzo_.”

“I have no idea what that means, but I can tell it's rude. And you're welcome. Anyway: I thought maybe the Hawks; they're playing the Wild tonight.”

“The Hawks . . . oh, the Blackhawks? Good choice; I haven't seen them yet. That's Chicago, right? Did I tell you I'm performing there after New Year's? Well, in February, actually.”

“I don't think so?”

“Well, I am. With the Lyric Opera. Which usually doesn't make disastrous casting decisions. Unlike Pittsburgh. Did I also not tell you,” Andrew went on, “that I mapped out my schedule for the next few months, and plotted it against cities that have hockey teams, to see where they intersect?”

“You didn't. That, I would remember.”

Raising his beer bottle, Andrew said, “Have I mentioned lately that I admire your honesty?”

“I don't remember.” Sid managed to keep a straight face.

“Well, I do. Remind me to show you the results; you can tell me who's worth going to see.”

“Well, the Hawks, for sure. Jon Toews is the captain. We don't really play against them during the regular season, but Jon and I played together on Team Canada in the Olympics.”

Squinting at him a little, Andrew said, “And you like him a lot. Don't you?”

“Yeah, I do. We're . . . friends. I guess. Friendly, anyway. How could you tell?”

“Just something in your voice.” Andrew hesitated, and then asked, “At the risk of being incredibly intrusive: is he one of your 'fan' boys?”

Sid had no idea what that meant, until he saw the back-and-forth motion Andrew was making, and then he remembered. And, of course, blushed.

“Oh my God,” he managed to choke out, “No! Me and Jon? I don't think either one of us would survive that.” After a moment, he added, “Besides: there's actually a pretty persistent rumor that he's involved with Patrick Kane. Who's a right-winger on the Hawks, and a phenomenal player. One of the best in the whole league. And I _know_ I wouldn't survive it if I got mixed up in _that.”_

Andrew burst out laughing, and Sid joined in.

“Do you think the rumors are true?”

“I have no idea. In case you hadn't noticed, I really suck at picking up on things. Well, things that aren't related to hockey; I'm not so bad at those.”

Andrew raised an eyebrow. “Well, I suppose one might argue that that particular rumor is, in fact, related to hockey. And I don't know that I agree with your self-assessment, actually. You read me pretty well in the car tonight—about the food, I mean. I think I have a pretty good poker face, but you saw right through me.” He leaned over and poked Sid in the side. “Please don't make a habit of doing that; it's a little unnerving.”

“I'll agree only if you agree to the same terms,” Sid said dryly.

“ _Col cazzo_.”

“I'm guessing that means no.”

“In a manner of speaking.”

**********

The Hawks seemingly could do no wrong that night, and were up three at the end of the first. By this point, there were any number of things about Andrew which Sid really, really, liked, but the single-mindedness with which he watched the game had to be near the top of the list. Andrew was as absorbed by the game as Sid was, but Sid couldn't help but notice that Andrew was fidgeting a little during the last couple of minutes. So as soon as the teams left the ice, he asked Andrew if he was okay.

“Huh?” Andrew replied intelligently. “You were right, Sidney; this is a great game.”

“Andrew. You've been squirming.”

“I have?” Andrew shook his head. “Sorry. I wasn't even aware. . . oh, shit.”

“What?”

“Now that you mention it, my back is itching more. I meant to ask you to take a look at it earlier, but with Taylor's lunacy, I forgot.” He jumped up and pulled off his shirt. “What's it look like?”

“Uh, not good. Worse than before, for sure. Brighter red.”

“Fuck. Where did I leave my . . . oh, in the kitchen, I think.” Andrew darted out of the room, and came back with his phone already at his ear.

“Hi, Uncle Phil. Sorry to bother you. . . . You know I don't like calling you at home when it's work-related. . . . Well, I have this disgusting rash on my back. We noticed it right after dress rehearsal and . . . it's a rash, Uncle Phil. It's red.” Turning to Sid, he said, “Are there any white bumps on it?”

“Uh, not that I saw. It was maybe a little raised, though.”

Andrew repeated this, and then listened. “Oh, that's a good idea. I'll do it now. Thanks.” He hung up, fussed with his phone, and then held it out to Sidney. “Would you take a couple of pictures? One showing the whole area, and a close-up or two of where you think it's the worst?”

“Sure.” He looked through the camera, and then said, “We should maybe go into the kitchen, where the light's better. Or even the bathroom.”

“Good thinking. In case you haven't figured it out yet, Mr. Not Good at Reading Things, I'm just a little freaked out by this.”

In his most deadpan voice, Sid monotoned, “I find that news truly shocking.” He easily evaded the swat Andrew aimed at him.

“Okay, hold still.” Then, “Uh, you want the whole area?”

“That's what Uncle Phil said.”

“Well, you need to push your pants down, then.”

“It spread that far?” Andrew's tone spoke of planet-wide devastation. He yanked his belt open, and pushed his pants and underwear down; they slid past his knees, and Sid crouched down to look, before snapping a picture.

“This is kind of strange.”

Andrew muttered something in a language Sid didn't understand, so he ignored it.

“What's strange?”

“There's a clear area, maybe two or three inches wide, all around,” he traced it with his finger, “and then it starts up again, all over your ass, and goes down to your calves. But why . . . hey, I bet I know. Turn around.”

Andrew didn't hesitate, and Sid, reminding himself that this was serious, leaned closer and then nodded.

“What?”

“Well, I'm no expert,” Sid moved back a step and took another picture, “but I think you were right when you said it was something in your costume, 'cause it's worst where your costume was tightest, and it's completely clear where your jock covered you. Really weird looking jock, by the way.”

Andrew sagged a little. “That probably means it _was_ the detergent, and that I haven't contracted some fatal disease. I hope.” He pulled up his pants, and without bothering to zip up or buckle, took back his phone and started pushing buttons. As he did so, he remarked absently, “And it's called a dance belt, not a jock. And you're in no position to comment, Sidney, with that thing you wear. You do know that germs can survive in cloth for years, don't you? I'm surprised you have any skin left.”

Sid was not at all fazed by this. “Army—he used to be a Pen; he's one of my best friends—used to warn me that wearing my lucky cup would make my dick fall off.”

“Well, it's obviously still there,” Andrew said, as he sent off the pictures. “Or at least it was when you were in Boston.” He took a deep breath. “Okay. Now all that has to happen is for Uncle Phil to call back and tell me I'm not dying.”

On cue, his phone lit up. “It's magic,” he quipped, and answered.

“Hi, Uncle Phil. . . . Oh, thank Christ. That's what we thought too. Any idea how long it will last? Well, crap. Can you call in a prescription for something to make it stop itching? Really? That's OTC, right? Are you sure it'll be strong enough? Okay. How many should I take? Uh, two beers. . . . Okay. But Uncle Phil: I'm singing tomorrow night—it's opening night. And I have stuff I have to do in the morning. Will I be able. . . . Uh huh. And what if it's not gone in the morning? Oh, six hours before. Okay . . . okay. Thanks a million, Uncle Phil. Tell Aunt Sarah marrying you was the smartest thing she ever did. Bye.”

Andrew closed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths, then said, “Well, it could certainly be worse, I guess. Sidney, I'm sorry I'm going to have to miss the rest of the game, but I need to go to a drugstore; I want to start taking the Benadryl as soon as possible. Would you mind calling me a cab?”

“I don't mind, but I. . . .”

Andrew interrupted. “I know you'd be happy to drive me, but there's no reason for both of us to miss the game.”

“You're right—there isn't. And we won't. I have Benadryl here.”

“You do? Oh, that's fantastic.”

“I'll go get it. And you could maybe try and relax?”

“I could try.” But Andrew's tone was doubtful. And as Sid went upstairs, he let out the grin he'd been careful to suppress. It was kind of a kick to see Andrew lose his cool: he was always so in control—when he wasn't throwing people into laundry baskets, anyway.

**********

After checking the expiration date and reading the instructions (Sid couldn't help but roll his eyes), Andrew took the pills, downing them with two glasses of water.

“Okay. Now I should try and relax. Except—oh, Christ. Has the game started yet?”

Sid looked at the clock. “Probably not for a few more minutes. We can go check, though, to be sure. Why?”

Andrew made a face. “I suppose I need to call the opera house and let somebody know.” He followed Sid back into the media room. “I'd make my agent do it, but I'm keeping him in reserve.”

“For what?”

“I'll tell you later: I want to get this over with before the second period.” He scrolled through his contact list, said “Ugh,” and made the call. Sid was sure he was talking to the company manager who'd pissed him off with the group picture, because although his words were perfectly polite, the gestures he made during the call were anything but. He thought the call was almost over, when Andrew froze in his pacing, and his tone of voice totally changed.

“That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Of _course_ I don't want you to fire anyone over this. The only reason I'm telling you at all is because it occurred to me that other people might be affected too, and I thought you should know.” He listened for a moment, and then said, “If that's what you thought I would want, then you haven't been paying attention for the past two weeks. Anyway: now you know. I'll see you tomorrow, I'm sure. Enjoy your evening.” He clicked off, and then let out a spate of what Sid could tell was very bad language, despite not understanding a single word. When he finally switched to English, though, all he said was, “I really hate people sometimes,” as he plopped down on the couch next to Sid.

Sid bumped shoulders with him. “I can relate. Forget about him; the game's about to start again.” He stood up. “You want another beer?”

Andrew hesitated. “I probably shouldn't, with the Benadryl. But . . . well, Uncle Phil didn't seem concerned that I'd been drinking. Yeah, I'll have one more. Thanks, Sidney.”

The Hawks dominated the rest of the game, and at the end, Andrew turned to Sid and said, “That was good!”

“It was,” Sid agreed. “That goal Kane made in the third was spectacular.”

They spent a pleasant few minutes on a recap, and then Andrew sighed.

“Well, I'm about to turn into a pumpkin.” As if on cue, he yawned. Widely. “I should head out.”

Sid didn't want him to go. “Why?”

“Huh?”

“Why go? Stay here.” Sid peered at Andrew hopefully. “It's not like I don't have the room.”

“Sidney. . . .”

“No, seriously. Wouldn't you rather stay here with me than go back to some hotel room?”

“Honestly . . . yes. I would.” Still, Andrew seemed to be hesitating.

“You should stay here. Who knows what kind of detergent the hotel uses? I,” Sid announced grandly, “only use the best.” He hoped Andrew didn't ask him what kind that was.

Andrew's eyes crinkled. “Oh, well then. Who could refuse such an enticement?”

“Good.” Sid was practically bouncing on the couch. Andrew's laugh was cut short by another yawn.

“God, I'm sorry. Are you sure you want me to stay? I'm not exactly going to be scintillating company.”

“For sure, I'm sure. I'll go make up the bed.”

“ _We'll_ go do that.”

As they climbed the stairs, Sid strategized. He pulled the sheets out of the closet, and held them out. “Here, smell.” Chuckling, Andrew complied. “Nice and clean, eh?”

“They are. Very nice. You're an excellent host, Captain Crosby.”

“I try. I'll be honest and say that I don't do it a lot.”

“Well, I'm even more honored then.”

Sid led the way to the best spare room, and walked over to the bed. He started to pull down the comforter, and then paused, and looked directly at Andrew.

“You know, you could sleep in my bed. With me. If you wanted.”

Andrew's jaw dropped slightly and his eyes opened wider. He didn't say anything, though, and Sid felt his shoulders tighten.

“Or not. Whatever.”

He turned back to the bed, but almost instantly, Andrew's arms surrounded him in a hug.

“Sidney.” Andrew's voice was low, and he spoke directly into Sid's ear, making him shiver. “You surprised me. That's all.”

Sid tilted his head back. “A good surprise or a bad surprise?”

“A good surprise. Definitely a good surprise.” Andrew squeezed him tightly, and Sid relaxed.

“Well, good. I'm glad it's . . . uh, good.”

“It is. For sure, as you might say.”

Even better, Sid thought.

Andrew turned Sid around, but didn't let go of him. “The only thing is: even though it's good, it's still a surprise. So let's do this: let's make up this bed, go downstairs, and talk a little bit. That way, we've got all bases covered. Or whatever the hockey version of that metaphor would be.”

Sid couldn't help but laugh. “I don't think there's an exact equivalent. Maybe shadowing or close checking come, uh, closest. To the baseball meaning, anyway. Not the, uh, metaphor.” They both laughed, and Andrew's eyes were crinkled, and his arms were still around Sid, and Sid felt good. Good enough that when they separated and started stripping the bed, he admitted, “I've actually been wanting to talk about . . . uh, this,” he made an all-encompassing gesture, “for a while now. It's one of the reasons why I wanted you to come over tonight.”

Andrew raised an eyebrow. “One of the reasons?” He then winked, which made Sid giggle. Just a little.

“Yes, Andrew, _one_ of the reasons. The others being that I like spending time with you; you needed to eat and I didn't feel like being in public; and I wanted to watch a game with you in person.” He unfolded the bottom sheet and tossed one end to Andrew. “And you even suggested the game before I could. Which was a bonus.”

“I'm very happy I'm such an accommodating guest.”

Sid gave him the finger. “But I couldn't decide how to bring the subject up. Since I don't exactly know what the subject is, beyond,” and he made the same gesture again.

Obviously trying to control himself, Andrew said, “Sidney, have I ever told you that you have very expressive hands?” He then gave up, and sank down on the bed; when Sid threw a pillow case in his face, he laughed even harder.

When he was winding down, he reached over, grabbed Sid's wrist, and pulled him down beside him. “I'm sorry, Sidney; I shouldn't tease you so much. But I confess I'm feeling a little giddy—and only some of that is due to the Benadryl. Believe me, it's been a long, long, time since I was given such a nice invitation.” He hugged Sid. “Come on; let's go downstairs and talk, and I promise I'll be serious.”

Sid leaned against him. “I've learned over the years that it's always better to strive for attainable goals. So, how about you promise to _try_ to be serious, instead?”

“Ooh, snap!”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“I don't either, really. But all the kids say it.”

**********

“Okay, so who goes first?” Andrew asked innocently. He took a swallow from his bottle of water. “I think the person who said he's been wanting to have this talk for a while should go first. That will give the other person time to catch up.”

Sid grimaced, but conceded the point with a reluctant nod. “I shouldn't have opened up my mouth, should I?” he grouched.

“Oh, I don't know, Sidney; opening your mouth might mean our finding new things to open our mouths for.”

Sid colored, but just the thought made his grin widely. He thought he must look kind of goofy, but Andrew didn't seem to mind.

“Well, I don't really know what I was going to say, exactly, except to ask a couple of questions.”

“Questions are good.”

“Okay.” Sid lifted his bottle and tried to marshal his thoughts. “I guess the first question was always going to be, 'what are we doing?'”

Andrew raised a hand. “Not to be difficult or anything, but may I ask when you first formulated this question?”

That was easy. “After I spent the night at your place.” Then he thought about it, and added, “Okay. To be honest, that's when I first thought I should maybe ask _you_ that question; I've been asking _myself_ that question practically since we met.”

Andrew huffed out a laugh. “God, we're a pair. I've been asking myself the exact same thing, for the exact same time. It's really weird, Sidney; my behavior with you is _completely_ atypical. For the most part, I don't really do friends. I mean, I do _have_ friends—non-work friends, that is—well, a few. From prep school, mostly. And I do socialize. A little; I kind of have to for work, you know? But all of a sudden, I'm taking impulse trips to D.C. to see you play, and talking on the phone for hours. Not to mention, going out to bars with you and the guys. Before I met you I stayed home—well, when I _was_ home—and worked. Or read.”

“However atypical you think you've been acting, double it for me. When I invited you to breakfast? I told Nathalie, Flower almost checked me for fever. And that was only the beginning,” Sid said, striving to sound aggrieved. “Do you know the phone company contacted me? They thought maybe my phone had been stolen, and somebody else was making all of those calls. I actually had to change my calling plan.” By the time he finished, he was giggling, and Andrew was too. “No, Andrew; I definitely win.”

“Maybe on that point. Maybe. However,” Andrew dragged the word out, “I've been wanting to ask _you_ that question much longer than you have—ever since we had dinner after my concert. In fact, I almost _did_ ask you when you drove me back to my hotel after the game the next night. Although, in my mind, the question was a little different.”

“What was it?”

“It would have been, 'Sidney, are we flirting?'”

Huh. “If you had asked me that question that night,” Sid said slowly, thinking it through, “my answer probably would have been something like, 'Maybe. A little, I think. Uh, on my part. So . . . Yes?'”

“Ah. The definitive Captain Crosby. Although to be fair, I'm not convinced my answer would have been much different. In substance, anyway; I probably would have used fewer words.”

“Fuck off, Andrew.”

“Smile when you say that . . . oh, you are. Sorry, my mistake.” Andrew yawned though his own grin. “Okay, I'm fading, so let's hit the big points. I have a couple of things to ask, okay?”

“Sure.”

“I've given you the Readers Digest version of my dating life. Have you dated much?”

“Uh, it depends on how you define dating. And before you open that smart-ass mouth of yours, I'm being serious. When I was at Shattuck, I was, uh, close with my roommate. We did stuff together. And we, um, did _stuff_ together.” He paused. “I really should have made a hand gesture there, shouldn't I?”

“Definitely.”

“And I've mentioned that I, uh, fuck around with a couple of other players sometimes. Once in a while, I'll have a drink, or a meal, whatever, with one of them. But I don't think that's dating, exactly. I for sure don't talk to them on the phone for hours, or invite them to my house, or anything like that.”

Andrew nodded, as if he understood completely. And maybe he did. After he yawned again, he said, “Okay. Let's not be absurd about this. Two things: Sidney, I very much like the idea of going to bed with you. I haven't had sex with someone I actually know and already like since I was a teenager. I've gone out on quote unquote dates, but haven't had sex with any of them, and I've had sex, but never more than once with the same guy. Usually,” he added candidly, “I can't wait to get out of there and go back to my hotel. But the thing is: I do know you, and I really like you. And that's important to me; I've never had a friend like you, and I want very much for us to remain friends. So if having sex is going to screw that up, then I'd rather not.

“The other thing is: do you think we're capable of sleeping in the same bed tonight without really doing anything? Because I'm exhausted, and if we _are_ going to do this, then I want to take my time and enjoy it.”

Sid thought about what Andrew had said. Carefully, because this was important.

“I can't say for sure,” he said finally, “what would happen if we had sex. But I've never had a friend like you either, and I really don't want anything to fuck that up. So maybe the fact that we both don't want to fuck it up means that we'll both try really hard not to?” He shrugged a little. “I don't know.” Then, looking at Andrew and trying not to blush, he said, “As for the sharing the bed thing? I'm definitely up for that. And we couldn't really do anything anyway, because uh, I've got a game tomorrow. And I don't . . . um,” and he stopped his hands before they could do anything, “well, _do_ anything the night before a game.”

Andrew's eyes crinkled. “Ah. Well, then.” He stood up. “To quote Samuel Pepys, 'And so to bed.' I hope you have a spare toothbrush. And dental floss.”

Smiling widely, Sid stood up too. “I have both of those things. And I'll even share my toothpaste with you.” Feeling intrepid, he took Andrew's hand, and led him out of the room.

**********

When they walked into Sid's bedroom, Andrew said, “Sidney. You are a man with set routines. I am, too, but almost certainly not to the same degree. Therefore: you need to tell me if anything I do bothers you. And I promise I will do the same. So, in the interests of good communication, let me be forthright and tell you that I usually get up at least once during the night to pee. It drives me absolutely nuts if people leave the seat up (you can thank Mom for that one). I don't like a lot of covers, but I do like at least two pillows, and three would be better. And I prefer to sleep naked, but if that wigs you out, I'm fine with wearing my underwear; I do not, however, ever wear pajamas. If any of that is untenable, then I'll just go down the hall.”

Sid felt a weight lift off him. He had shared a room, and a bathroom, thousands of times over the years. Some people's habits bothered him more than others, but he was never truly comfortable unless he was alone. Which was, of course, a problem, since he really wanted Andrew to stay. So as they'd climbed the stairs, he'd prepared himself to weather his discomfort and hide it as best he could. But once again, Andrew had surprised him.

“None of those things is a deal breaker, as far as I'm concerned. If you want more pillows, take them from the guest room; I only use two. I need to sleep on the right side of the bed. I don't really like a light on when I'm trying to fall asleep, but if you want to read, I can wear a mask. I do things in a particular order in the bathroom, and it can take a while, sometimes. I can live with you using the shower or peeing when I'm in there, but please don't take a shit.”

“Noted.” Completely deadpan, Andrew asked, Do you have a policy on farting?”

“Uh, farts happen?”

“You are wise, young Jedi.”

Sid wondered if his grin looked as goofy as Andrew's.

**********

Andrew was already in bed when Sid came out of the bathroom for the last time, and Sid noticed he'd folded back the covers on the right side. Which was really, really, nice. Then Andrew patted the bed, and said, “Come and get comfortable, Sidney.” So Sid got in, and Andrew immediately pulled him in for a hug.

“Is this okay?” he asked.

“More than okay,” Sid said, sinking into the embrace. “This is nice.” He squirmed a little, getting more comfortable.

“If anything starts saluting you,” Andrew said, his voice full of amusement, “just ignore it. Like farts, boners happen.”

Sid giggled helplessly. “You know, I've laughed so much since I met you. Maybe Nealer was right to call you Mr. Happy.”

“Ignoring that nickname, which I'm doing with all of my considerable powers of will, I'm quite certain we wouldn't be here if it weren't for you laughing at breakfast.”

“Probably not. I think it's only fair to warn you, though, that Nealer is determined to give you a nickname. He was talking about it at your rehearsal; he even asked your dad about it.”

Andrew said something in Italian, and Sid poked him. “What does that mean?”

“'God, give me strength.' You ready to sleep.”

“Mmmm, maybe. Can we keep doing this a little more?”

“Of course.”

Sid leaned up a little, and rubbed his forehead against Andrew's. “Good.”

“May I tell you something?”

Closing his eyes, Sid said, “I guess. You're using your chirping voice, though.”

“My . . . ? Oh, that kind of chirping. For a minute there, I thought you were calling me a coloratura.”

“I wouldn't do that. Even if I knew what it meant, I probably couldn't pronounce it. What'd you want to tell me?”

Andrew moved his mouth so that it was closer to Sid's ear. “Remember what you said to me, just before you left my place? About how you wouldn't have minded if I'd shared my bed with you?”

“I do.”

“Well, I've thought about that. A lot.” He paused, and then said, “You know, Sidney: neither one of us seems to know what he's doing. We don't have any real experience, and the only thing we _do_ seem to know is that we're not acting like ourselves. But . . . and this is my point: I'm really, really, _really_ glad we're lying here together.” And then he kissed Sid lightly, just for a second or two. And equally lightly, Sid pressed his lips against Andrew's.

“Now, turn out the light and face the other way, and I'll thank you properly for the invitation.”

Even as he complied, Sid wondered for a split second if he should be worried, but he immediately told himself no, and he was right, because Andrew merely drew him back against his chest, and then, with his chin resting on Sid's shoulder, he started, very softly, to sing.

 


	9. Chapter 9

For the first time in years, Sid overslept. And even though he was going to be late (well, late for him, which meant early for almost everybody else), he didn't immediately jump out of bed and start rushing around. Instead, he let himself lie there for a minute, enjoying the sense of contentment that was suffusing his entire being. He was happy—and for some strange reason, what was making him happy was not hockey. He couldn't actually remember exactly when the last time that had happened was, but he supposed it didn't matter: what was making him happy was Andrew, and Andrew was in his bed, with his hair looking like last year's bird's nest (and from what distant corner of his brain had he dredged up that phrase?), and Andrew had sung him to sleep, and there was the possibility of that happening again. And so much more.

If Sid had been a cat, he would have purred.

He tried to get out of bed noiselessly, but as soon as one foot hit the floor, Andrew stirred.

“Hi.” Sid was sure his grin looked ridiculous, but he didn't give a shit.

“Good morning, _mon oie_.” Andrew's face was transformed with his crinkling smile. “Did you sleep well?”

“Better than in years.”

“Good.”

“Why don't you get some more sleep?” But Andrew shook his head.

“I've got stuff to do. I have my own equivalent of game day rituals.”

Sid hadn't thought his grin could get any wider; apparently, he'd been wrong.

“And then I'm meeting Caroline for some last minute fine-tuning. Which really means trying to make sure she doesn't succumb to nerves.” He rolled her eyes. “Maybe I'll tell her to treat the entire audience as if they're in the NHL; she was certainly relaxed enough with the guys yesterday. Anyway: go get ready.”

“Okay.” And because he could, and because he was sure Andrew wouldn't mind, and perhaps most of all, because he wanted to, Sid leaned over and gave Andrew a quick kiss.

He grinned foolishly at himself in the mirror the entire time he was brushing his teeth. Whatever; he was entitled.

He was half-way down the stairs when the door opened. It was Geno, using his key, and Sid almost smacked himself on the forehead; he'd completely forgotten that Geno had demanded they ride together.

“Sid? What wrong? Why you not outside tapping foot and looking mad at watch like always?”

“Morning, Geno. Because I slept late.”

“You?” Geno goggled. “Okay. World ending.”

“Shut up.” Sid pushed past him on his way to the kitchen. Where Andrew presumably was. Oh. Where Andrew. . . .

Where Andrew, wearing only his underwear, was leaning against the island, eating a piece of toast.

“Sidney, I didn't know what you wanted beyond tea, which is ready now, but please, _please_ tell me you have some coffee stashed away somewhere in this mausoleum.” Then, looking beyond Sid, he smiled and said, “Zhenya! _Dobroye utro!_ ”

Geno walked into the kitchen, looking as stunned as Sid had ever seen him. “Morning.” Then his face changed; it became practically illuminated with pleasure. “Good to see you!” He bounded over and hugged Andrew, who looked pleased, but a little confused, judging from the raised eyebrows he directed at Sid. “Sid keep coffee in freezer. Probably three years now.”

“Well, that sounds appealing. Or do I mean appalling? Oh, well; I'll get some later.” He finished his last bite of toast, and unabashedly licked his fingers. “Hey, Sidney: how's my back look?” He turned around, and Sid mentally shook himself.

“Uh, not any worse. Maybe . . . maybe a little better.” He squinted. “I think the edges are less red. Which is probably good?”

“Probably. I took some Benadryl when I got up in the middle of the night. It does make me fuzzy, though, so that's it until after I sing tonight. You guys heading out now?”

“After Sid make disgusting protein shake. Which he pretend taste good.”

Andrew made a gagging noise. “Well, I'll leave you to it. I need to wash and get dressed; my car should be here soon. In case you have to leave before I get down: have a good practice, guys; play well tonight.” He walked over and hugged Sidney, and fuck it all, Sidney hugged him back. Because this was Andrew, and just because he wanted to. They smiled at each other, and then Andrew walked briskly out of the kitchen. And started singing . . . scales? . . . as he headed upstairs.

Sid stared after him for a moment, barely registering Geno's moving to pour them both some tea.

“Sid. Make shake.”

Sid mentally shook himself and got busy. Making the shake. And then mentally shaking his head. At himself. Trying to rein his stupid brain in, he reminded himself that the best offense. . . .

“So, why'd you want to drive in together, Geno?”

Geno just shrugged. “No real reason.” Then he grinned wickedly. “Well, no real reason now.”

Oh for fuck's sake. “I have no idea what that means. And I don't want to know.”

“Sid have good time last night?”

Geno was really, really terrible at sounding innocent.

“Yes,” Sid said, and turned on the blender. He also tried to hide the smile that was threatening to emerge, and all of a sudden, he relaxed. This was Geno, after all.

“We watched the Hawks obliterate the Wild. It was fun.”

Sid didn't know if he was any better than Geno at sounding innocent, but he had a good time trying.

**********

Sid got a hat trick that night.

During the media scrum, when asked some variant of “Are you doing anything differently?” for the third time, he smiled politely and said, “I slept really well last night.”

**********

There was no way any of the guys were going to let Sid escape going out that night, so he didn't even try. What he did do was preemptively ask where they should go—and tried not to smirk at the almost disbelieving looks he got. And then he texted the name of the place to Andrew's phone, and asked, “Join us?”

It took a lot longer than he thought it would for Andrew to reply; it had been really hard not to check his phone constantly, and he knew that he couldn't time himself, because the guys would give him shit about being impatient to leave. So every fifth time Nealer checked his phone, Sid checked his. Fortunately, when Andrew's text came, it said, “Be there soon.”

When Andrew walked in the bar, Caroline was with him, and she looked almost nothing like she had the day before. Sid couldn't help but stare as they approached the table, and he wasn't the only one. She was practically glowing, which made her look very pretty, and which made Sid think the performance had gone well. When the rookie jumped up and asked her, she just started laughing, so it was Andrew who announced that she'd been fantastic. The guys who'd been at the dress rehearsal started congratulating her, and the rookie took charge of introducing her to the others.

Sid thought that Andrew might take the chance to escape and come over to him, but instead, Andrew announced that he was buying a round to celebrate Caroline's “triumph”—and then, with a wink at Sid, “and you know, I heard a rumor that _somebody_ got a hat trick.”

The guys loved that, of course, and then Caroline started talking.

“It was so funny! Act Two had just ended, and most of us were scrambling to get ready for the curtain calls, but Andrew, who's always so super focused on what we're supposed to be doing, just stood there and shouted, 'Does anybody know how the Pens are doing?' And one of the crew told him, 'Up by four. Crosby got a hat trick.' And Andrew was all,” she made a victory fist in the air, “'Yes!'”

The guys loved that too, of course. And so did Sid. Of course.

**********

It took him a while, and from what Sid could see, some deft maneuvering, but Andrew finally managed to plop down next to him.

“Hi there,” he said, grinning widely. “Congratulations, Captain Crosby.” He held up his glass, and Sid met it with his own. Also grinning. Widely.

“Thanks. And uh, congratulations to you too. It went well, I take it?”

“It did.” He glanced around, and Sid figured out he was seeing if Caroline was out of earshot. She probably was, but Andrew lowered his voice anyway; Sid leaned in closer to hear.

“Sidney, it was remarkable. She was so much better even than at the dress, and that was light years ahead of what she was like. . . .” He stopped abruptly, and Sid looked up; Caroline was walking around the table towards them. Andrew stood up, and so, perforce, did Sid.

“Sorry to interrupt, but I've had maybe three sips, and I'm already half-drunk. So, before I completely lose my senses, I wanted to thank you, Andrew, for everything you've done to help me these last few days.”

Andrew, predictably, looked embarrassed. “Don't be silly, Caroline; you don't have to thank me. I didn't do anything special; you did it all yourself.”

“No, I didn't.” Caroline's voice was firm. “You helped me immeasurably, Andrew. You gave me hours of your time, and so much encouragement—even at the beginning, when I was so nervous and horrible. You didn't have to do any of that. And when you saluted me, during the curtain call,” her voice faltered, and Sid was sure she was about to cry, “I mean, _you_ saluting _me_! It was like . . . in that moment, I felt like everything that I've worked so hard at for years and years had just been handed to me. I'll never forget that. Ever. So thank you.” And she threw her arms around him, and he patted her back, and murmured something Sid couldn't hear—all the while looking supremely uncomfortable. Which Sid could totally understand.

When Caroline drew back, she was, in fact, crying, so Andrew pulled out a handkerchief (of course, he carried a handkerchief, Sid thought), and handed it to her.

“Well, I still don't think I did anything special, but since you seem to, thank you, Caroline.” He patted her arm, and then said, “And since you claimed that my encouragement meant a lot to you, I'm going to encourage you now: go get all the way drunk. If ever there were a night to get plastered, it's tonight. You go over and tell Tommy he's now designated driver, and then tie one on.”

Caroline laughed, and since she was also blowing her nose, it wasn't exactly pretty. But then she said, “For sure!” Which made Andrew look sideways at Sid and snicker.

Before Caroline could leave, though, Sid cleared his throat.

“Before you came over,” he said, feeling a little awkward, “I asked Andrew how the opening went. And he immediately started telling me how good you were. So, for what it's worth, I think you should believe him. And now . . . maybe you could tell me something?”

She nodded, and Sid went on, “I know Andrew won't, so . . .” he paused for effect, the way Andrew sometimes did, “how was he tonight?”

Andrew hissed, “Sidney!” as Caroline threw her head back and laughed.

“He was great, even for him,” she said eventually. “The audience clapped for three minutes straight after 'Una furtiva lagrima,' and of course, gave him a standing O at the end.”

Of course. “Well, thanks for telling me. Andrew?”

“What?” Oh, he really was embarrassed; Sid was enjoying this.

“Your next drink is on me.”

“It certainly will be,” Andrew muttered. “All over you, if you don't button it.” But Sid could tell he was pleased.

**********

After Caroline left them, Andrew demanded that Sid tell him about the game, which Sid was happy to do. He even didn't mind the chirps thrown at him by everybody else in earshot when Andrew interrupted him and said, “For Christ's sake, Sidney: tell me about your hat trick!”

When Sid got back from the men's room a little later, he found Geno talking to Andrew. In Russian. From the look on Geno's face, he was in full trouble-maker mode, and Andrew seemed half-amused and half-exasperated. As Sid sat down, Andrew made a slicing gesture with his hand, and said something that made Geno double over laughing. When he recovered, he said, “How they say in English? You kiss your . . .” his eyes darted to Sid for a second, “mama with those lips?”

“My mama,” Andrew said with conviction, “would say something worse. Now go make yourself useful, and get us another drink.”

“What was that all about?” Sid asked as Geno, still laughing, walked away.

“Believe me, you don't want to know.”

“I kind of do, actually.”

“No, you really don't, but fine,” Andrew said, rolling his eyes, “only not here. Later.” He tilted his head towards the rest of the table, and Sid got it.

“Uh, maybe you're right after all,” he said, grimacing slightly. Which made Andrew snort.

“Trust me. Anyway: I need food soon. Like, an hour ago. Is there anything here I'd be willing to eat?”

Sid looked at his watch. “I think it's just bar food now. Unless you bribe somebody in the kitchen.”

Andrew looked like he was seriously considering it, so Sid added, “To be honest, I don't think people come here for the food.”

“Shit. Well, then, after this drink—and did Evegni go back to Russia to get it?—I'm going to head out in search of sustenance.”

“Do you eat eggs?”

“I do. Once in a while, anyway. Why?”

“There's a diner we go to sometimes. The food's pretty good, and it's open late.”

“Sold. Oh thank God, here's my drink. Thank you, Zhenya.”

“Is no problem.”

Just then, there was a roar of laughter from the next table and the three of them looked over; Caroline seemed to be telling some of the guys a story, and from their faces, it was the funniest thing they'd heard in a while. Sid distinctly heard Nealer say, “No fucking way _Andrew_ did that!” But Caroline nodded, and said something Sid couldn't hear, and everybody started laughing again; the rookie was actually pounding the table.

“Oh Jesus,” Andrew said fervently. “If she's telling them what I think. . . . Come on, let's get out of here.” He started to stand up—and Geno put his hands on his shoulders and forced him back down.

“You finish drink. Is rude not to.” Then he called over, “What so funny?”

Everybody looked back at them; Caroline's face changed almost instantly from laughter to horror. She stood up, a little unsteadily, and fled, presumably to the bathroom. The rookie and Nealer played a quick game of Rock, Paper, Scissors, which the rookie evidently won, since he stood up and walked over, wearing a shit-eating grin. Of course, Nealer and the others were right behind him.

“Caroline was just telling us a story, Andrew. About you.”

Andrew seemed resigned to the inevitable, since he'd stopped struggling with Geno. “I'm not all that interesting. And I'm pretty sure she's drunk.”

The rookie ignored him. Addressing Sid and Geno, he said, “Seems like Andrew don't like people treating him special 'cause he's a big star. According to her, he's the opera version of Gretsky. Or you, Sid.”

Both Andrew and Sid winced; Geno started laughing.

“And I guess Caroline was a little star-struck when she got pulled in to work with him all of a sudden. So, after their first practice, he takes her aside, and asks her, real politely, just to treat him like she would anybody else. 'Cause he is, in fact, just like everybody else. And Caroline's all flustered, and don't know what to say, so Andrew says, 'And I can prove it.' And then,” he paused, and Andrew put his hand over his eyes, “he cuts a _major_ fart.”

Sid started honking, and Geno started roaring, and everybody else who'd gathered around to hear did too; Andrew let his body fall forward until his forehead hit the table with a thud. But the rookie wasn't quite finished.

“And then he smiles real big and says, 'See?' And then he pretended to be embarrassed, and says, 'Oh, I _am_ sorry, Caroline; please forgive me. I used the wrong verb. I should have said, 'Hear?'”

Andrew banged his head on the table again. And again.

When the jeers and catcalls finally stopped, Andrew lifted his head and glared balefully at everybody.

“You have anything to say for youself, Andrew?” Geno asked wickedly.

Andrew visibly tried to assume a dignified air. “Just one thing. No, two things. First of all, it worked. Which is what matters. And second: that story is inaccurate. It was not a _major_ fart. It was a _minor_ fart.” He paused, and then added, “B flat minor, to be precise.”

Everybody looked confused, and Andrew sighed.

“Oh, never mind.” Picking up his drink, he muttered, “Philistines.”

**********

As they walked to Sid's car, he asked Andrew, “So why were you so late getting here? Was it your standing O?” He skipped sideways to avoid Andrew's swat.

“No, it wasn't that.” He grinned. “Although now that we're alone, I will admit to you that I was, in fact, very, very good tonight; I didn't think the applause would ever end. Anyway, that's not why it took me so long. That slimy toad of a manager had arranged a meet-and-greet with some donors—or maybe, potential donors—and didn't tell me about it until the last minute. So I had to go play nice for a while.” He kicked a pebble into the street. “I entertained myself by thinking of the slowest, most painful ways to kill that creep. I finally decided on disemboweling, and I swear, if I had had to smile one more minute, I might have tried to do it.”

He collapsed into Sid's car. “Food, Sidney. Please, food.”

Sid started the car, but didn't put it in gear. “What makes more sense? Food, and then your hotel, or your hotel first? Can you last that long?”

“Why would we go to the hotel first?”

“Because,” and Sid tried to make it seem as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, “we're going back to my house after we eat, and you probably need some of your stuff.”

That got him an eyebrow—in slow motion, this time. Sid was impressed.

“We are, are we? And when did we decide that?”

Sid decided to forego innocence and try for confused. “I thought we decided last night that my sheets were better.” Andrew looked startled, and Sid pressed his advantage; maybe a little innocence would work after all. “How is your back, anyway?”

Andrew's lips twitched. “Sidney, I hate to break it to you, but your acting is terrible. Please don't make that your second career.” Despite his words, his tone was . . . fond. “Okay, fine. Let's swing by the hotel; if you try to park, it'll take forever, and then I will die of hunger, so I'll just run upstairs.”

“'As you wish,'” Sid intoned.

Andrew choked. “I can't believe you just quoted _The Princess Bride_ to me.”

“Andrew, it's a classic.”

 


	10. Chapter 10

When they walked into Sid's house a couple of hours later, Andrew toed off his shoes with relief.

“I need to hang up the clothes I'm wearing tomorrow; where should I do that?”

“My room is fine,” Sid said, “unless your clothes want their own room.”

“I think they can handle cohabiting with yours. If you'll excuse the pun.”

“I'd be happy to. Once you explain it to me.”

“Once . . . ? Oh, shut up. Stop playing dumb.” Andrew started up the stairs with his suitcase, and Sid followed with their duffles.

“I'm not saying I'm dumb. I'm saying that you're, uh, better with words than I am. More precise, maybe?”

Andrew considered that as Sid turned on the lights. “That's probably because of what I do. Every word is important. Or should be.” He tossed the suitcase on the bed and opened it.

“Where did you go to college?” Sid asked.

“I didn't,” Andrew said, lifting out a suit. “Hangers?”

“In here.” Sid opened his closet, and Andrew whistled.

“Jesus. You have more suits than I do.”

“I need suits that fit, and what fits at the beginning of the season really doesn't at the end.”

“I guess that makes sense.” Andrew walked back to the bed and took out a couple of shirts.

“Why didn't you go to college?”

“Because I wanted to sing,” Andrew said simply. “As soon as possible. I felt I was ready, and didn't want to wait four more years.” He laughed ruefully. “You cannot imagine the fight I had with Mom and Dad over it. It was the biggest fight we've ever had: it lasted for _days_. Literally. And it's not that they didn't want me to sing, but they wanted me to wait until after college. Mom was bad enough; she at least tried to compromise with someplace like Juilliard or the Academy of Arts in Philly, but Dad? God almighty. Dad wouldn't even go that far.” He shook his head, remembering.

“How did it end?” Sid asked. “If you don't mind my asking. I'm curious; I have . . . a little experience with stubborn parents.” Mainly one of them.

Andrew bit his lip, and eyed Sidney carefully for a few seconds. Then, shrugging slightly, he said, “I've never told this to another soul, so please keep it between us, okay?” He waited for Sid's nod to continue. “We were going at it yet again, and we'd covered all of the same ground for about the fiftieth time, and I was just so mad, and I could feel myself getting ready to finally start saying out loud all of the mean, hateful things I'd been _thinking_ for three entire days. And I didn't want to do that, but it seemed like my only choices were giving in to the anger, or giving in to what they wanted—and I didn't want to do that, either. So, faced with two equally unpalatable options, I just yelled, 'Time out!' And they . . . stopped.

“And I said that I needed to work something through. We were in the kitchen at home, and they just sat there, in silence, while I paced up and down, thinking about what the real issues were. 'Cause this fight was so atypical that it had to be about something more than simply getting what we—what any of us—wanted.

“And once I'd thought about it that way, then it was actually easy. I turned to them and I said, 'I don't want to fight about this any more. If it will make you happy, then I'll go to college first. But you need to know that that's the only reason I'm doing it. It's not what I want to do, it's not what I feel I need to do, and it's certainly not what I think will make me happy, but I will do it. Because you're my parents, and I love you. And I know you love me too. So, I guess what I'm saying is, I'm willing to concede, because I think love is more important. But I have to say, I wish there were a better way to balance those things–love and happiness–for all of us.”

“And they sat there for a minute, looking at me, and then they looked at each other. They still hadn't said a word since I'd called the time out. And then, all of a sudden, my dad started crying. And then Mom did. So of course, I did too. And then we just kind of worked it out.” He shook his head, and then walked back to the closet.

Sid had sat down on the bed during this story, and he stared into space, thinking about it. Finally, he said, “I think there's something I don't understand. You said that giving in to what they wanted was unpalatable. But right after that, you said you told them you were willing to do exactly that. I guess I don't see why, exactly. Was it some kind of strategy? You thought that if you gave in first, that they'd give in? 'Cause to be honest, Andrew, that doesn't seem like something you'd do.”

“Well, perhaps I didn't explain it very well. The difference is that I made the terms of my capitulation absolutely explicit. If they made me go to college, they'd have to live with the knowledge that I was only doing it to make them happy. And at a considerable cost to my own happiness. And since they're very smart people, they acknowledged the simple fact that their happiness wasn't necessarily more important than mine. They're my parents, but it's my life.”

He huffed out a laugh. “Of course, the reverse is true too. My happiness isn't necessarily more important than theirs, either. It's my life, but I'm their son. Their dependent son, at the time. Which is why I got to pursue my career, but only after we hammered out an agreement complete with time limits, quantifiable goals, contingencies, and all sorts of things. I was supposed to take at least one college-level course a year—it didn't matter where, or what, but I did have to take one. Not that I minded, really.” He made a face. “My career took off long before I thought it would, and after the first year, it became apparent that I wasn't ever going to be in one place long enough to take a course, so we had to work out an alternate arrangement; essentially, every three years I take a semester off work and go to school.” He rolled his eyes; “I think the agreement's thirty pages long at this point.”

Sid's jaw dropped. “They actually drew up a contract?”

“They certainly did. I think their main reason was to emphasize how important the whole thing was to them—and also to let me know how seriously they were taking me. But of course, being us, some of it's pretty funny.” He grinned. “I'll have to show it to you sometime; I insisted we all sign it with crayons. I don't think Dad's ever going to forgive me for getting the purple one first.”

**********

This time, Sid was ready for bed first, and he smiled as he turned down the covers on the left side. He yawned as he got in himself; it had been a long day. A very good day, but a long one.

By the time he'd reviewed his mental list of what he was going to work on the next morning, Andrew had slipped into bed next to him. Sid rolled on his side, and they hugged.

“So tell me, _mon oie_ ; are you as tired as I am?”

“I'm pretty beat,” Sid admitted. Then he snorted. “We're a pair, aren't we?”

“A pair of what?”

Sid poked him. “You know what I mean. Here we are. Last night, I wouldn't do anything, and tonight we're both too tired.”

Andrew tilted his head. “That's not entirely accurate, Sidney. Last night, I wouldn't do anything either. We'll get there when we get there. 'Good things come to those who wait,' as the saying goes. Besides, this is nice too.”

“This is _awesome_ ,” Sidney said emphatically. Then, more tentatively, he added, “I was just worried you might expect something more tonight.” He could feel Andrew jerk in his arms. “Andrew? What's wrong?”

After a pause, Andrew said, “Nothing's wrong, Sidney. But I don't think 'expect' is a verb that should be used in this context.”

“I . . . don't understand.”

Andrew maneuvered himself so he could look directly in Sid's eyes. “It could just be me—you were right, earlier; I _am_ particular with what words I use—but I don't think people should expect sex. I _expect_ you to treat me with respect. I can ask you to always be honest with me, and if you agree, I can _expect_ that courtesy. But sex . . . sex is a gift. I'll be totally honest and admit that ever since you came to my concert, I've _fantasized_ about having sex with you. Now that the possibility is there, I can _anticipate_ having sex with you. Certainly, I can _hope_ that we'll have sex sometime soon. And I do. But it really doesn't have to be tonight. We both have to want it, and we both have to be aware enough to enjoy it, and I absolutely do not mind waiting until both of those things are true. Okay?”

Sid replied by pulling Andrew even closer, and hugging him tightly. After a minute, he said, “Okay.” Then, after a pause, he added, “I know you're wiped, Andrew; I know you performed tonight. But can I say that I hope that you're not too tired to sing to me—just a little?”

“You can, and I will.”

And he did.

**********

Sid managed not to wake Andrew up the next morning, although he figured it was due more to Andrew's exhaustion than his own stealthiness. And he was pleased that he was still at home—just sitting down to drink his protein shake, in fact—when he heard Andrew come downstairs.

Andrew took one step into the kitchen and then stopped short. “Is that coffee I smell?”

“Yeah. I got you some after morning skate yesterday.”

“Sidney, you're a lifesaver. Thank you!” And Andrew kissed the top of his head as he headed for the pot.

“What are you up to today,” Sid asked, as Andrew slumped down at the table.

Andrew took the time to inhale over his mug several times before he said, “Publicity stuff. God, this smells good.” He took a taste. “Ooh, it is good.” After another sip, he said, “Let's see: I'm being interviewed by one of the local stations at 10, I'm signing CDs at Barnes & Noble at noon, and for some reason that completely escapes me now, I agreed to do a Q&A for some music professor at CMU at 3:30. And somewhere in there, I need to find the time to work out and do my vocal exercises. Which means the crappy gym in the hotel and the opera house. Not necessarily in that order. How about you?”

“Morning skate. Then I'm working with the rookie for a while. Lunch. I have a bunch of game tape to review. Some strength training. Speaking of which: why do you have to go to the hotel to work out? Why not do it here?”

“Because I didn't know I could. You never gave me the full tour of this edifice,” Andrew teased. “Not counting the bathroom, I've seen a total of four rooms.”

“Well, I'm sorry; I didn't think. I've got a good set-up: you know, for the times when I don't want to head back to Consol.” He stood up. “Come on: let me show you.”

“Pretty impressive,” Andrew said, looking around. “You sure you don't mind if I invade?”

“Andrew,” Sid said sternly, “Don't you know me well enough by now to know that I really don't offer things if I don't want to?”

“Eh,” Andrew said, “You talk a good game, but I can tell that deep down you're a push-over. Or maybe not so deep, actually. But in any event: if you're sure, then yes, great. I can work out now, and not have to worry about fitting it in if things run over. Thanks, Sidney.”

Sid enjoyed the hug, and ended it reluctantly. “I should get moving,” he said.

“Okay. Have a good day, _mon oie_. I'm for more coffee, I think, then my workout. Oh, I almost forgot: do you have plans for dinner tonight?”

“Uh, no.”

“Want me to cook?”

“If you're offering, then yes.”

“I am—well, I just did. Good; is there a Whole Foods around here?”

“There's one in Pittsburgh itself, and one in Wexford, about 20 minutes from here.”

“Perfect. I'll try and let you know what time I'll be back. You will be here to let me in, right?”

That made Sid stop and think. “Yeah.”

“Great.” Andrew turned towards the kitchen, and then started chuckling. “Christ,” he threw over his shoulder, “don't we sound domestic?”

“I . . . guess we do.” He paused, and then called out, “For sure.”

He could hear Andrew laughing almost all of the way to his car.

**********

Sid was the first one at Consol, which didn't surprise him. And he wasn't really surprised when the rookie's car pulled in before Sid had made it inside. So he waited, returned the cheerful “Morning!” and they walked to the locker room together.

When Flower got there, he asked Sid, “You see this morning's paper?” Which Sid hadn't. Flower pulled part of it out of his bag.

“Great review of the opera in it. You should read it.” Then he laughed, and added, “Vero still can't believe I went to an opera. Now she's read the review, she wants to go too.” He ruffled Sid's hair. “All your fault, Sid.”

Sid jerked his head away, but was unable to hide his grin. Flower just rolled his eyes and walked off, and Sid put the paper aside to look at later.

Practice went well, and Coach gave Sid a nod at the end of it, which Sid took to mean that he felt the same way. Sid and the rookie did the drills Sid had earmarked on the list in his head—to good effect, Sid thought—and somehow, they ended up playing keepaway for at least twenty minutes, until Sid realized that he was in real danger of completely throwing off his schedule for the rest of the day.

Naturally enough, all of the other guys were gone when they reentered the locker room, and Sid wasn't at all surprised when the rookie followed him to his stall and settled himself on the bench.

“Want to fill me in on what we're doing, Sid?”

For a second, Sid was half-tempted to say no, just to see what would happen, but he resisted. So instead, he said simply, “I think we're clicking on the ice. What do you think?”

The rookie hesitated, but after a moment, nodded. “These last few practices . . . yeah. I think there's energy there.”

“So,” Sid shrugged, “I thought it might be useful if we tried to fine-tune it a little.” He started pulling off his gear.

“Is this something Coach asked you to do?”

Sid shook his head. “Coach is in charge of what we do in practice, of course; he wouldn't ask me to do something like this. I stay after a lot; I always have. This is . . . just something I do, sometimes. With somebody else, I mean.”

The rookie stared at Sid as if he were a puzzle. After a few seconds, he said, “Sid, I know this is something you do. You don't do nothing that the whole league don't know about. What I can't figure out is, why me?”

Slightly irritated, Sid said, “I'd do this with anybody on my team.”

“Yeah, I know,” the rookie nodded. “You're famous for that too: you don't refuse anybody on the team who asks you for help. The thing is: it's not that I'm not grateful, and it's sure not that I'm not enjoying it, and it's definitely not that I'm not finding it helpful . . . but I didn't ask. So, I'm still wondering: why me?”

Sid started to scowl—but reined himself in. He reminded himself that it wasn't only reporters who were annoyingly persistent, and that he wore the C for a reason.

“Okay,” he said after a minute. “Your playing has gotten better since you were called up. Part of it is that you're more used to playing with us—” he paused, and waited until the rookie nodded in agreement, “but part of it isn't. Can you tell me what the second part is, and why?”

The rookie's mouth opened and closed. “I got no idea.”

“Well, think about it. And when you can answer my question, I'll answer yours.” He turned to his locker, but then added, “Although, if your answer matches how I would answer that question, I bet I won't have to.” He tried to hide his smirk as the rookie scowled at him.

“Okay, fine. Moving on. Caroline asked me after you guys left last night if I thought Andrew was really pissed at her—for repeating that story. I told her I didn't think so—but what do you think?”

“I doubt it,” Sid said honestly.

“Good. I figured he was probably more upset that none of us got his joke about B minor or whatever. Which Caroline explained to me is some kind of music thing. And which she thought was kind of funny. Of course, that was just before she threw up, so who knows?”

Sid had to laugh.

**********

Sid opened his front door, and goggled at the number of bags already sitting there. He looked out, and saw Andrew and . . . Samuel, that was it, Samuel the day driver taking more out of the trunk of the car.

He walked down to help them, saying hi to Samuel as they passed. “When the hell did you find the time to buy out Pittsburgh, Andrew?”

“I am extremely efficient, Sidney; it's one of my superpowers. Here,” he said, shoving something very heavy into his hands, “carry this.”

Sid looked. “Andrew, I already have a frying pan. Maybe even more than one.”

“I know that, Sidney.” Andrew's voice was patience itself. “You have a couple of shiny stainless steel skillets. Well, they would be shiny if they weren't so dusty. But you don't have one made of cast iron. And that's essential.”

Despite what Geno told him at least twice a week, Sid wasn't an idiot, so he decided not to pursue that. At least in public. He shifted the pan and hefted three of the bags from Whole Foods. After thanking Samuel, Andrew scooped up the rest of the bags, and followed Sid into the house. Dumping them on the island, he said, looking at the clock, “Let's throw the perishables in the fridge, and leave the rest. Would you go turn on the local news? My interview should be coming on any minute now.”

“You want to watch yourself?” Sid said disbelievingly.

“Believe me,” Andrew said, a little grimly, “I don't want to. But I think I should. They threw something at me I didn't expect, and I want to get a better sense of how poorly I handled it.”

That, Sid could understand. He headed for the media room. There was a commercial on, but he still called for Andrew to hurry up.

The interview didn't seem bad to Sid. Television-Andrew seemed relaxed, and his usual self. Real-life Andrew, however, seemed to be getting tenser and tenser, and then he leaned forward.

“This is it,” he muttered.

The interviewer said, “I have to ask you about the special guests at the dress rehearsal. I understand that many of the Penguins hockey team attended; there's even a picture of them with the cast on the opera company's website.”

“Is there? Nobody told me that,” Television-Andrew said in his most polite voice. “But yes: a number of the Pens came. My parents invited them.”

“Your parents are, of course, Dr. Daniel Copley and Elisabeth Singleton Copley, the two chief executives of Singleton-Copley Enterprises, one of the most successful high tech companies east of Silicon Valley. If I may ask, how did they come to invite the Pens?”

“Well, Mom and Dad had been to the Pens game the night before; they were guests of the team—they even sat with Mario Lemieux, the owner, you know, who introduced them to the team after the game. I wasn't there—we had extra rehearsals that afternoon and evening, due to the unexpected cast change—but I understand that Marc-André Fleury, the goalie, invited Mom and Dad to watch them practice the following morning. And somehow,” Andrew laughed, “that translated into Mom and Dad inviting the Pittsburgh Penguins come watch the Pittsburgh Opera rehearse. I have to say: I'm very fond of the practice of having an audience for a full dress rehearsal. When you have living, breathing people in the hall, you also have their reactions, and it allows us—the singers—to fine-tune our actions. It does turn a rehearsal into much more of an actual performance, but I believe that's a very good thing.” He went on to say something about Caroline's “revelatory” performance, but Sid stopped listening, because real-life Andrew had relaxed completely.

“Oh, that wasn't so bad after all,” he said, reaching for the remote to turn off the news. “I can live with that.”

“What were you afraid of?”

“That I had lied,” Andrew said baldly. “I don't like to lie, particularly on camera. Lies come back to haunt you. It's better to tell the truth, and better still if you're able to tell the truth in a way that actually obscures things you don't want to get out.”

“Such as?”

“Such as, saying that Mom and Dad were guests of the team, instead of saying that they were _your_ guests. Since you didn't let me pay you for the tickets. Technically, I suppose what I said _is_ a lie, except that, as captain of the team, you serve as a . . . oh, an emblem, I suppose; I don't want to use the word figurehead, because obviously _that's_ the wrong word. There's an actual word that I can't remember right . . . oh, a metonym. That's it. Metonymy is when you use a part to describe the whole. You for the team: that works.”

Sid's lips twitched.

“What?” Andrew demanded.

“You're really kind of a nut, you know,” he said, snickering.

“Why, thank you, Sidney.” And then Andrew reached behind him, grabbed a pillow, and lobbed it at Sid. A brief scuffle ensued, which ended with both of them laughing like lunatics.

Sid had seldom felt more at ease.

When they'd wound down, Sid asked, goofy grin still on his face, “So I'm curious. Why was  _that_ what you were so concerned about?”

Andrew rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, Sidney. Figure it out.”

Sid resisted the urge to stick his tongue out at him. “I don't want to. Tell me.”

“I'll consider it,” Andrew said grandly. “Let's go back into the kitchen, and let me get dinner started. You'll help, and if you do a good enough job,  _maybe_ I'll tell you.” He stood up and held out his hand; Sid grasped it, and Andrew pulled him up easily.

“It always surprises me how strong you are,” Sid remarked as they left the room. “I mean, I know you are; I've seen evidence of it, and yet I still forget. I guess it's because you're don't have the obvious bulk.”

“I've never liked being obvious,” Andrew said, in a falsely confiding tone, and then yelped as Sid chased him into the kitchen.

“Anyway,” Sid said a little later, as he was chopping things under Andrew's direction, “are you going to tell me?”

“Maybe it's because I think you don't need any more publicity,” Andrew teased from the stove, where he was doing things to onions.

Sid tilted his head as he thought about that. Why would. . . . Oh.

“Are you saying,” he asked carefully, “that you're trying not to associate yourself with me specifically?” He did _not_ like the way that felt inside him.

“To quote my parents, 'well, duh.' Seriously, Sidney,” and Andrew turned to face Sid; he did look entirely serious, “it may be kind of an open secret in the music world that I'm gay, but from what you tell me, it's certainly not that way for you. And. . . .”

Sid interrupted him. “Andrew, why are you even bringing that up?”

“Because, Sidney, given the fact that from what I've been able to tell, if you sneeze, half the known world knits you a scarf, and the other half rants about you in Caps Lock on the Internet, I doubt it would take very long for rumors to start to surface if you and I were linked publicly—and I estimate that would happen about one nanosecond after I said that you gave my parents tickets to your game. Remember how quickly those asshole fans of Ovechkin's started in with the homophobic comments on Twitter?”

Sid supposed that was true. Still. . . . “Why?” he asked stubbornly.

“Why what?”

“Why would it have to be about you? Your parents are pretty famous by themselves.” According to the rookie, even more famous. “And they were in that picture too.”

“I know all of that,” Andrew said, his patience a little too obvious for Sid's taste. He poked at his onions, and then took the pan off the heat. “Look, Sidney. It's not like I had a lot of time to think about this. I was really blind-sided when they brought up that photograph, and I couldn't exactly plan out what to say.” He walked over to Sid and put his hands on Sid's shoulders. “To give you the plain, unvarnished truth: as soon as she started asking me about the Pens, absolutely the first thought I had was that I shouldn't even mention your name: that that was the best way to keep your secret, and also the best way to keep me from having to make a very unpleasant decision.”

Sid stared at Andrew's face; if he'd thought Andrew had looked completely serious before, he'd been wrong.

“What decision is that?”

Andrew took a deep breath. “Whether or not to lie to a direct question. I told you, Sidney: I decided a long time ago that if I were ever asked if I was gay in an interview, I would tell the truth. And that's all well and good for me, but it's certainly not that way for you. And . . . well, as I told you just a little while ago in the other room: I don't like to lie. To take it further, I don't  _want_ to lie.” He hesitated, and then added, “I seem to have upset you, and I'm sorry if that's true. But in those very few seconds I had, it just seemed imperative that I needed to protect you, and so that's what I tried to do, by emphasizing the connection to the team, and not to you, specifically.” His mouth quirked, but he didn't sound amused, really, as he went on to say, “And my anxiety—which was considerable, let me tell you—was over how good a job I did.”

Sid deflated as Andrew's words sank in. “I'm sorry you were anxious,” he said finally. “And . . . I'm sorry that the fact that we're friends seems to be causing you problems.”

“Oh Sidney,” Andrew said, hugging him tightly, “it's a big deal, true, but it's not  _that_ big a deal. Today was mostly about the fact that I was unprepared. There's nothing for you to apologize for. If you want to feel sorry about something, then I suggest you feel sorry for the fact that you overruled me and agreed to that photograph's being taken in the first place. I cannot believe that the little weasel put that picture on the website. He can do what he wants with me, but he has  _no_ right to use the Pens  _or_ my parents as a means to get publicity. And I intend to tell him just that. Well: I intend to have my agent tell him just that; Bradley will be thrilled. He's always telling me I need to display more artistic temperament, which of course is nonsense, but this time, when I actually have a list of completely legitimate grievances? He'll be in hog heaven.

“And as for the other thing you said: I'm very, very happy we're friends. I just hope that our friendship doesn't cause  _you_ problems. That, _mon oie_ , is my main cause of concern.”

Sid hugged Andrew this time, enjoying the closeness, the feeling of connection. He also tried to banish some unpleasant anxieties of his own—some of very long standing, and some much more recent.

**********

Over dinner, which was pan-seared tuna, and probably even better than the halibut Andrew had made in Boston (Sid had been afraid that all of the cracked black pepper Andrew had pressed onto the fish would burn his mouth off, but it turned out not to—and Andrew didn't even say 'I told you so' out loud), Sid told Andrew about what the rookie had asked about Caroline.

Andrew, predictably, laughed. “I can't wait to see her tomorrow. What do you think—should I act all cold and standoffish? Make her sweat a little bit?”

“You're not really bothered by it, are you,” Sid remarked. “I didn't think you were. Even though it is a little . . . uh, out there.”

“It's a completely outrageous story, and it might well be the most unprofessional thing I've ever done. But, as with many, many, things in my life, it was spur of the moment, and probably a result of my truly adolescent sense of humor. But Christ, Sidney: I had to do  _something_ . She was practically genuflecting every time I opened my mouth. And as I told the guys, it worked. The minute she relaxed around me, her performance started improving. Which reminds me: explain something to me about hockey terminology. Are the lines hierarchical? I mean, does everybody simply assume that the fourth line is the . . . well, not weakest, I guess, but . . . almost? And third line less so, and so on? The other night you said that Toews was on first line, and Kane on second, but you called Kane one the best players in the league, so I wondered.”

“For the most part, yes. There are exceptions, though; it can be kind of complicated. Let's start by talking generally.” And Sid settled in.

About ten minutes or so later, he finished by asking, “So, what's the connection? Between Caroline and this?”

“Well, I don't know how germane it is anymore, but  _if_ the lines  _were_ strictly hierarchical (and I have to say, the distinctions you make about when they're not are rather fine—at least, to a non-initiate), then when I first started working with Caroline, I wouldn't have even rated her fourth-line. Maybe not even farm team level. Before the dress, I would maybe have thought third. Maybe. Now? Her performance during the dress was solidly second-line, with parts of it gesturing towards first, and she was even better on opening night. I don't know if she'll ever be a quote unquote star,” he made a face, “but if she keeps singing like that, I wouldn't be surprised. I know I'd work with her again in a minute, which is not something I would ever have imagined I would say even four days ago.” He bit his lip. “Does that sound incredibly arrogant? I didn't mean it to.”

“I don't think so. You have high standards, and she impressed you; what's arrogant about that?” Sid asked. Leaning back in his chair, he added, “You know, I obviously never thought about this, but I'm beginning to realize that the way hockey works gives me a big advantage over you. We spend an incredible amount of time building a team, from training camp on. But it seems like you're constantly putting a team together, every time you perform.” Sid shook his head. “I would find that really hard.”

“I suppose we are,” Andrew said. “And sometimes it really, really is. Here, for example; this engagement has been a nightmare. Even before it began, it was hellish.” 

“How so?”

“Well, the negotiations went on and on. And on. And then, when everything was nearly settled, they changed the engagement by increasing the number of performances; I almost wasn't able to appear here at all.” He hesitated, and then said, “Okay, at the risk of sounding  _really_ arrogant: I can pretty much sing anywhere I want. If I chose to, I could flit from one major opera house to another. But I don't want to do that: I like appearing with smaller companies too. People outside New York like opera just as much, you know? So I always try to mix it up a little. But smaller companies mean smaller budgets, and in the case of Pittsburgh, much smaller. I agreed to sing with Pittsburgh for a  _vastly_ reduced fee. I don't know every little detail that went on in the negotiations, but my understanding was that I accepted even less than they offered initially, so that they'd be able to bring in other really good people for the rest of the cast. I'd never worked with the original Adina before, but by and large, she's got a solid rep, and she sounds decent enough on disc. Honestly, I don't know what the hell went on there. I'm good, and I'm certainly not going to deliberately sing less than my best—but if I sing everybody else off the stage, it doesn't matter how good I am, the production flops. I might get good reviews, but the company itself doesn't, and ultimately, that's not good for opera, which has,” he winked at Sidney, “kind of an image problem with a high percentage of the general public. So, it's a balancing act. After all, wasn't it one of your people who said, 'There is no I in team?'”

“One of  _my_ people?”

“You know, one of those athletic types. Although, maybe I'm wrong: I'm told that most athletes can't spell—hey!” And Sid chased Andrew around the kitchen, the two of them laughing like fools.

They ended up calling a truce, leaning against the sink, dripping water and still sputtering.

“Come on, Sidney,” Andrew said, “let's clean up and go watch a game.”

“I should clean up; you cooked. You want to go pick?”

“No, you'll pick the best. It'll go quicker with both of us.”

And of course, he was right, so Sid didn't argue. And as Andrew closed the dishwasher, he said, “You know, I need to clarify something I said earlier.”

“What's that?”

“I said this engagement in Pittsburgh was a nightmare. And that was true up until the dress.” He put his arms around Sid. “But I have to tell you: I've become very fond of Pittsburgh. Thanks for making my stay here so nice.”

Sid hugged him back. “You're very welcome. And on that topic,” he reached into his pocket, “I stopped at the hardware store on my way home.” He handed Andrew a set of keys. “These are for you, to use while you're here.”

Andrew stared at the keys, and then at Sid. “I . . . what . . . Sidney, I don't know what to say.”

“How about: 'Thanks, Sid. Can you drive me to my hotel so I can get the rest of my stuff?'”

“But . . . But. . . .”

Andrew was looking completely overwhelmed, and Sid was getting a kick out of it.

“Don't worry; we can tape the game and watch it later.” Andrew shook his head like he was a dog who'd just woken up in a puddle.

“But . . . Sidney. I can't just move in! Don't you have a bunch of away games starting in a couple of days?”

“So? What difference does that make? I don't have to be here for you to cook yourself good meals in the kitchen, and sleep on sheets that don't give you a rash, and watch my games in comfort on the nights you aren't singing. Come on, Andrew: it makes sense. You'll probably save yourself a lot of money. And besides: I want you to.” He paused, and then added, a little shyly, “It'll make me happy, knowing you're here.”

Before the smile had completely reached Andrew's eyes, Sid knew he'd won.

And only an idiot didn't like to win.

**********

On their way back from the hotel, Andrew started chuckling.

“What's so funny?”

“Oh, I was just remembering something Aunt Betsy told me. She's not really my aunt; she's Dad's youngest sister's husband's great-aunt . . . I think. Something like that, anyway. She and her wife—well, they're married now; they've been together since the 1980s—once told me a joke: What does a lesbian bring on the second date?”

“I . . . have no idea. What?”

“A moving van.”

 

 


	11. Chapter 11

Over breakfast the next morning, Andrew asked Sid, “Is there a room for me to dump my music in?” Before Sid could answer, Andrew added, “Let me rephrase. Obviously, you have many, many rooms—most of which do not seem to be in use. But is there a room in particular that you wouldn't mind my taking over for my music?”

Sid answered Andrew's smirk with a rude gesture. Still, he thought before he answered.

“Maybe the . . .“ he paused, and then laughed a little. “I don't remember if it's called the study or the library. Or it could be the den?” He stood up, and shoved his elbow into Andrew's quivering side. “Whatever it is, I don't really use it.” By this point, Andrew had his hands over his mouth and was making strangled noises that Sid decided to ignore. “Let me show you.”

He'd reached the door of the kitchen, when Andrew called out, “Wait a sec, Sidney: let me bring some breadcrumbs in case I get lost.”

Barely missing a step, Sid whirled around, gave Andrew a frosty glare, and pronounced, “ _Stronzo_ .” He then stalked out of the kitchen, before letting himself grin.

When Andrew caught up, he was still chuckling. “Do you have any idea what that means?”

“No, but I remember how you used it. So you only have yourself to blame.”

Andrew waved that off. “Well, congratulations, Sidney. Considering that you don't even speak Italian, I have to say that the way you _don't_ speak it is perfect.”

“Thank you,” Sid said politely. “Are you going to tell me what it means?”

“Not a chance.”

**********

After checking for his keys, Sid cleared his throat, and said, “It's a game day today, so let me give you an idea of my schedule.”

Andrew listened attentively, and at the end said, “Well, it sounds as if I won't be around to get in your way. Caroline and I are meeting to touch up a few things late this morning; I have a practice room reserved for the afternoon—I'm so far behind schedule it's actually embarrassing—and then there's a dinner thing with the Opera Guild.”

“So you won't be able to make the game tonight?”

Andrew shook his head. “Almost certainly not.”

Sid was disappointed, but tried not to show it. “Well, I'll record it for you.” He was rewarded with a smile.

“That'd be great, thanks. Are you going out with the guys after the game?”

“Most likely, if we win. If we don't . . . it depends. If it's a morale kind of night, then yes.” He hesitated. “Sometimes . . . sometimes a few of the guys want to come over here and play video games.”

“Okay . . . oh.” Andrew looked searchingly at Sidney. “Do you not want me here for that?”

“No! Not at all. I was just wondering if that was okay with you.”

“Sidney.” Andrew's voice was stern. “It's your house. Of course it's okay with me. As long as it won't be a problem if I get back and they're here. Are you sure you want the guys to know I'm staying here?”

“Why wouldn't I? Why would they even care?” Even Sid could hear how false his voice sounded.

Andrew's eyebrows shot up, and he opened his mouth. But before he could say anything, he stared intently at Sid, and then his face changed from surprise to . . . something else.

“Ah. Well. Whom were you thinking of inviting?”

“Uh, Geno, of course. Flower, and the other French-Canadians. Probably Nealer. Maybe the rookie.” In his mind, he changed that to definitely the rookie.

“That sounds like a good group.” Andrew's lips twitched. “My first music teacher gave me a piece of advice that I've found very helpful over the years. Would you like to hear it?”

“Sure.”

Andrew spouted off some words in Italian, and then grinned.

Almost involuntarily, Sid grinned back. “Translation, please?”

“Into English? Or into hockey?”

“Definitely into hockey.”

“Learn to stand on your skates first, otherwise you'll get nowhere fast.”

**********

Sid was almost sorry they won that night. Only almost, because he wasn't an idiot. Still, he couldn't help feeling a little . . . rueful? He thought that might be the right word. He supposed he'd get other chances to carry out his plan, but having thought of it, and having absorbed the shock he felt when he realized that he actually wanted to do it, he was . . . anxious . . . to follow through. Not to be confused with the anxiety he felt when he imagined the actual following through part.

But a win was a win was a win, and there were time-honored traditions to observe, and so he did. And as they were settling in at the bar, Flower asked him a question.

“Where's Andrew tonight?”

And Sid improvised.

“He's at home.” Then, looking at his watch, he said, “Well, maybe not yet. He had a dinner thing. With an opera . . . guild? I'm not sure what that is, but I think that's what he said this morning . . . at breakfast.” He then tried to covertly assess Flower's reaction . . . which proved difficult because Flower didn't seem to react at all. Other than a nod, and a trenchant comment about the evils of PR. Nor did Duper, who was next to Flower, and clearly listening. Nor did Nealer, when he asked Sid the same question a little later. Nor did any of the three or four other guys who asked after Andrew over the course of the first couple of rounds.

Sid was puzzled. And not a little aggrieved. So when he got a text from Andrew, asking if he and the guys were at Sid's, and should he bring home pastries, he texted back “No and yes,” made his excuses, and left. And was more puzzled when there were almost no protests about his leaving early. There might have been smirks . . . okay, there definitely were smirks, but then again, there were almost always smirks, so that didn't mean anything.

He hoped the pastries were good.

And they were, although he actually ignored them at first so that he could complain about the guys to Andrew. Who also smirked, but only a little. And when Sid had finished talking, and turned his attention to the little torte things on his plate—one had fruit in it, so it was okay that he took two—Andrew offered up his interpretation of events.

“Well, I'd say it's likely one of two things, Sidney. Maybe you were more subtle than you're reporting, and no one picked up on the implications of your using the word 'home.' They could have assumed you meant my home. After all, it's not as if you said, 'he's at my house,' which would have made things explicit. Or possibly, they didn't react because it's a non-issue.”

“What kind of non-issue?” Sid asked, a little thickly; he made a mental note to floss extra thoroughly before he went to bed—these raspberries had a lot of seeds.

“Either they know already, maybe because someone told them or because they've figured it out for themselves, or they don't care. Or some combination of those things.” He took a meditative forkful of his own torte, and Sid felt vindicated, because if  _Andrew_ was eating one, then they had to be actually healthy, so he put another one on his plate.

“I'd say one thing's for sure, though,” Andrew said, wiping his mouth, “your teammates almost certainly think we're fucking.”

Sid choked. After he'd managed to swallow an errant berry or two, he said hoarsely, “What? How can they think that? We haven't even done anything yet!” He was actually outraged.

Andrew was too busy laughing to pay any attention to Sid's righteous indignation, so in retaliation, Sid stole the last bite of torte off of his plate.

“Oh Sidney,” Andrew said eventually, “how in the name of God would they know  _that_ ?”

“I don't know,” Sid said, a trifle mulishly. “But they shouldn't think we're fucking when we're not.”

Slowly, Andrew smiled. “Actually, I quite agree.” He stood up, and held his hand out.

“Come along, Sidney. Assuming you are willing, I will begin rectifying this situation by revealing to you a closely-held secret.”

Obediently, Sid followed Andrew. “What secret is that?”

“Why opera singers are so good in bed.”

Sid started climbing the stairs two at a time. “And why are they?”

“Because in general, we possess excellent breath control.” Andrew pulled Sid to him and kissed him deeply. He then whispered in Sid's ear, “And not to be immodest,  _mon oie_ , but my breath control is not merely excellent. It is  _extraordinary_ .”

**********

Some considerable time later, as he was about to slip into the sleep of the thoroughly sated, Sid had just enough coherency left to think that really, extraordinary didn't even begin to cover it. For sure.

**********

When Sid got home from his road trip (they'd won two out of three, and he was convinced that they would have won the third if he hadn't forgotten the charger for the music player), there was a piano in his house.

He scratched his head. He was pretty sure he hadn't had one before. Not that he minded, really, because Andrew was sitting at it. Singing. Actual words, not just notes. While looking at music, something Sid didn't think he'd ever seen him do before. Which probably meant he was working. The considerate thing to do would be to slip away quietly and wait until Andrew was finished.

Sid rapped his knuckles on the door frame.

Andrew looked up, and Sid was rewarded by watching his face light up.

“Sidney, you're back early!” He got up and enveloped Sid in a tight hug, ending it with an exuberant kiss, both of which made Sid melt. “Welcome home!”

“Thanks.” Sid leaned up for another kiss. “It's good . . .  _really_ good to see you.”

“Why, thank you.” They stood there for a minute, swaying together and smiling at each other. Then, Sid's better angel made him say, “I'm sorry if I interrupted you.”

Andrew brushed this off. “I was pretty much done anyway. Are you hungry? Let's go in the kitchen.”

“I could eat,” Sid said, but didn't move right away. “Uh, did you buy a piano?”

“I didn't buy it; I rented it.” Blushing a little, Andrew added, “I should have mentioned it, but I didn't think you'd mind.”

“I don't. At all. But . . . why?”

“Because it occurred to me that with you gone, and with all of this space, it wouldn't be an inconvenience, and then I could just hang out here and work, instead of having to cadge practice time at the opera house.”

“Those are good reasons,” Sid smiled. “I told you my house was better than a hotel.”

“You did. And you were right. The same way you were right the last five times you reminded me that you were right.”

“I enjoy winning,” another kiss, “and I also enjoy coming home and finding you here.”

“Well, then. Glad to oblige.” One last squeeze, and then they started walking down the hall.

Andrew pulled a bowl out of the fridge and started nuking it. “What are your plans for the day?”

“Not much. We went from the airport to Consol for morning skate, so I'm pretty much free until tomorrow morning. How about you?”

“As it happens, I'm free this afternoon too.” He took the bowl out, stirred the contents, and put it back in. “I got up a little early, worked out, did my vocal exercises, and put in most of my practice time. In anticipation,” he dragged the word out, “of your return.”

“Really?” Sid couldn't even be bothered to strive for nonchalance.

“Really. Because it occurred to me that you'd probably get home before sundown. And that means it's not the night before a game day; it's the afternoon before. And I thought that perhaps we might sneak in a little . . . siesta?”

“Sounds like a plan. A very good plan. Do we even need to eat first?”

“I think we do. In fact,” the microwave dinged, and Andrew opened it, “I think the word for the day is 'endurance.' Good thing this,” he gestured towards the steaming bowl, “is high protein.”

**********

When Sid woke up from his nap, he was a little surprised and very much pleased to discover Andrew still asleep next to him. Trying to be as unobtrusive as possible, he rearranged himself so that he could comfortably look at Andrew's face in repose. And think about things. Because he had a whole list of things to think about. Some of those things were pleasant, while others were decidedly not.

He sighed a little. He knew he wasn't exactly the most perceptive person in the world (thank you very much, Taylor), but he thought he knew Andrew well enough by now to know that sooner or later—and probably more sooner than later—Andrew would bring up the topic that Sid most decidedly did not want to broach: the fact that Andrew's time in Pittsburgh was ending next week. Andrew, Sid reflected, was probably the annoying kind of person who jumped into the freezing cold ocean all at once, choosing to get it over with rather than delaying the inevitable as long as possible. Sid was often that kind of person too—well, about some things, anyway—but not this time. Decidedly not this time.

His time away had made him think about some of the more unpalatable items on his list already. The only thing that had made the road trip bearable had been the very few times they'd managed to talk on the phone—and the fact that Andrew was living in Sid's house, which he'd found immensely satisfying. And he was kind of afraid to think too much about why that was so. He'd missed Andrew, of course—he'd been missing Andrew to a greater or lesser extent ever since he'd left Pittsburgh after his concert all those weeks ago—but the more they'd gotten to know each other, whether on the phone, through texts, or in person, the worse their times of non-contact had become for him, until now he experienced them as a steady, sharp ache. Even knowing Andrew was watching his game from Sid's couch, and cooking in Sid's kitchen, and sleeping in Sid's own bed, wasn't enough to make the ache go away completely. And he didn't know what to do about that. Especially since the feeling wasn't new: it was what he felt when he was away from the ice for too long, when he couldn't, or wasn't allowed to, play hockey. Sid couldn't help but make a face as he recalled the exact moment he'd figured that out; he'd been shooting pucks, alone after morning skate, and when he made the connection, he'd tripped over his own stick and fallen gracelessly onto the ice.

The other thing that was tying him up in knots was Andrew himself. Sid frowned for a second; that was maybe not the best way to think about it. Andrew was smart, he was funny, he was really getting into hockey, he was open to Sid's suggestions and accepting of Sid's . . . idiosyncrasies. Andrew was warm, he was insanely generous, he had a work ethic that rivaled Sid's own, he seemed to like the guys, and they seemed to like him. All of these things were good. Great, in fact. The problem was that Sid absolutely could not tell how Andrew really felt a lot of the time.

Oh, he knew Andrew liked him. There was no way that Andrew would have agreed to half of the things he had if he didn't. If there was one thing he was sure of, it was that Andrew was not a pushover. He might tolerate doing things that he found distasteful or even flat-out loathsome for his job, but there was no way he'd do that in his personal life. Andrew could also be ruthless, and in his own way was as dedicated to his routines as Sid was. If Andrew hadn't wanted to spend more time with Sid, if he'd been reluctant to move out of his hotel, Sid was certain he wouldn't have. He'd have been polite, but he'd had shut Sid down in a minute if Sid had pressed him too far.

Sid squirmed a little. He hadn't meant to go there, even in his own head. Because Sid was uncomfortably aware that he  _had_ pushed Andrew, and that he had probably—all right, definitely—gone too far, and too fast. But Andrew  _had_ agreed, and Andrew continued to go along with Sid's crazy intensity. But why?

Too many questions, and not enough answers. And of course, there was the most important question of all, the one Sid had probably asked himself a thousand times or more ever since he'd met Andrew: what should he do?

Sid was distracted by a ring tone somewhere in the room. Andrew's eyes opened immediately, and he darted a quick smile at Sid before he lunged over the side of the bed and scrambled for his phone among the discarded clothes strewing the floor.

“Hi Dad,” he said, settling himself back on the pillows. “Not at all; we were just taking a nap.” He winked at Sid, who felt himself blush.

“Is everything okay?” He listened, and then a huge smile lit up his face.

“That's wonderful! How big? Ouch! How's Julia doing? I hope she's getting the good drugs. And the proud father?” He laughed. “Tell him I want pictures, and I want them now. Hey, I know I got that teddy bear, but should I send Julia some flowers too? Oh, I should have known. Would you put a card in? Let me think . . . okay, how about this: 'An episiotomy scar is the most potent weapon of motherhood; never hesitate to use it.'” Sid could hear laughter from the other end of the phone. “Hey, what can I say? I had great teachers. Thanks for letting me know, Dad. Give Mom a kiss from me. Okay, I will. Love you.”

He ended the call, and turned to Sid, still smiling. “Julia had her baby!”

“That much I figured out,” Sid said, rolling his eyes a little. “What I don't know is who Julia is.”

“Oh, she's Mom's admin. She and Craig—her husband—have been trying for years to have a baby, and believe me, it wasn't an easy pregnancy. God, they must be so happy!” He sighed, and then leaned over to put his phone on the nightstand.

“You know,” Sid remarked, “I think that's the first time I've ever heard your phone ring. You get fewer calls than I do, and that's saying something.”

“I get tons of calls,” Andrew said. “I just choose not to take them, most of the time. I programmed my phone so that it only rings out loud if certain people call, and believe me, that's not a long list. Mom, Dad, Julia, Simon (he's Dad's admin), Bradley (my agent, remember?) and  _his_ admin, Molly. Oh, and now you, of course.”

It was the “of course” that did it for Sid. Practically without thinking, he seized Andrew, pulled him on top of his own chest, and, ignoring Andrew's startled “Erp,” started kissing him deeply, almost frantically. It only took a couple of seconds before Andrew was kissing back hungrily. They rolled back and forth, trying to devour each other, until . . . they rolled right off of the bed. Sid didn't even pause; keeping their mouths glued together, he reached between them, gripped both their cocks in one hand and started jacking. Andrew levered his hips, giving Sid a better angle, and then pulled his mouth away only long enough to grate out, “Harder!”

It only took a couple of minutes before Andrew started coming, and when Sid felt the first pulse of Andrew's cock against his own, he shot almost instantly. Sid kept his hand working until he just couldn't any more, and then he let their mouths slide apart. Andrew was panting heavily, right in Sid's ear, and Sid . . . couldn't have been happier.

At least, that's what he thought, until Andrew muttered, “Jesus fucking Christ, Sidney! I . . . you . . . I've never played in overtime before.” And then his body went completely limp.

Sid had about ten seconds to enjoy the swelling feeling inside, before he passed out again too.

**********

“I forgot to mention upstairs,” Andrew said some little time later, as he was pulling salad stuff out of the fridge, “Dad told me to say hello to you.”

“Uh, hello,” Sid said, waving in what he hoped was the general direction of Boston. Andrew rolled his eyes, but Sid could tell his heart wasn't in it.

“You're a bit of a nut, Captain Crosby. Here,” he shoved the salad spinner (another essential item in any kitchen in which Andrew cooked) at Sid, “take your new favorite toy and make yourself useful.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Sid said, with at least a semblance of dignity.

“Don't front, Sidney. You know perfectly well that if you'd had one of these when you were a little kid, you would have tried to ride it all over the kitchen.”

“I would not,” Sid said indignantly; “I would have tried to ride it on the ice.”

“Oh Sidney,” Andrew said, when he could speak coherently again, “have I told you lately how much I enjoy your honesty? And your lack of filters?”

“That's because they're just like yours,” Sid said smartly.

Andrew threw up his hands. “And he scores!”

“You do know,” Sid said, giving the lettuce another spin (he'd determined that four plunges of the spindle was the optimal number), “that I'm not like this with a lot of people. With most people,” he admitted. Making a face, he added, “When you've had media descending on you like vultures ever since puberty, you learn not to say very much.”

“One of the things I admire about your media mode is how you manage to not say very much at great length.”

Sid snorted. “Hence, Sidney Crosby, Canadian hockey robot.”

“You know, I just don't understand. . . .” Andrew's voice trailed off. Sid glanced over from the sink, and was surprised to see Andrew was blushing.

“What don't you understand?” he asked, bringing the insert over to the island.

Andrew opened his mouth, hesitated, and then, putting the paring knife down, said resolutely, “Sidney, I have a confession to make.”

Sid couldn't imagine. “You do? About what?”

“After we met—you know, for the first time, in Philadelphia? Well, I . . . looked you up on the Internet.”

“So?”

“So . . . I really wish I hadn't. I mean, I didn't do much: I read the Wikipedia article on you, which was all I meant to do. But then I followed a couple of links, and then I was so . . . so _appalled_ by some of the things people said about you, that I stopped. Well, I stopped reading about you specifically; I tried to find out a little more about hockey in general, but to be frank, it's kind of hard to read about hockey and _not_ read about you, so sometimes. . . .”

Andrew looked really stricken, so Sid went round the island and hugged him.

“Andrew. It's not a big deal. I honestly don't get why you're upset.”

“Well, it's kind of a big deal to me. See, when I started singing professionally, I used to Google myself once in a while, and at first, it was great, because at the beginning, I was this big surprise, and everything was extremely complimentary. But it quickly devolved, because I _wasn't_ a one-shot wonder, and people started saying really crummy things about me. Which is incredibly paradoxical, when you think about it. So I decided to stop doing the whole Google thing. But then, I did it to you, and saw that the absolute worst of what people had said about me was a drop in the ocean next to what they say about you. And I felt horrible. For you. So I stopped doing it. And then . . . you actually came to my concert—which to be honest, I really didn't think you would—and then you invited me out to dinner, and we got to know each other, and . . . well, the more I knew about you from you, the more I hated the fact that I had read those things. Because the closer we got, the more I didn't even understand a lot of the negative things people said about you. Because clearly, Sidney, you are not a robot.”

“Oh, I kind of am,” Sid admitted cheerfully. “That one doesn't really bother me. I do have a one-track mind a lot of the time, and mostly, anything that isn't hockey bores me. Some of the other stuff that people say, well, yeah: it bugs me a lot more.” He squeezed Andrew. “Please don't waste any time feeling bad about this. As long as you don't believe my bad press, and can tolerate the things that are actually true, then I'm good.”

Andrew kissed the end of Sid's nose. “I refuse to believe that you're a robot.” He sighed theatrically. “But I suppose I can tolerate the other things—and for the record, you forgot to mention the fact that you are insanely superstitious.”

Sis snapped his fingers. “That reminds me. Do you think you could get me another charger for the music player?”

“I'm sure I could. Why? Did you lose the first one?”

“No, but I'd like to have a spare to bring on the road with me. I forgot to pack it this past trip.”

“I'll ask Dad to send you one. Oh, and incidentally, Sidney: don't think I didn't notice what made you bring it up.”

“Now I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about.” Judging from Andrew's snort, Sid had been less than convincing.

**********

Sid finally got around to emptying his suitcase before he went to bed that night—a deviation from his routine that didn't bother him at all, given the reasons for the delay—and he noticed a box in the closet. With Andrew's name on it, but with Sid's address.

“What's this?” he asked, toeing it curiously. Not too heavy.

“Oh, that. Well. Something from home.” Andrew seemed a little flustered. So of course, Sid had to pursue it.

“What is it? Your secret stash of junk food?”

The look Andrew gave Sid could best be described as disparaging. If one were being charitable.

“I assure you, I am not a junk food junkie. Do you know that song? It's pretty funny; I'll sing it for you sometime.”

“Okay. I like it when you sing anything. But don't try to change the subject. What's in the box?” Aha! The fingers through the hair.

“Well. Look, Sidney. You know my performances here end next week.” He made a face. “Which I don't particularly feel like talking about right now. But let's face it: who knows when we'll be able to be together like this again? So I was thinking about things I'd like to do before I have to go home. And I was wondering . . . is there any way you could take me skating?” Before Sid could answer, Andrew went on, his voice picking up speed, “I'd probably fall all over the place; I haven't been on skates in about a decade. But I used to be pretty good—of course, nothing like you—and I kind of thought . . . I thought it might be . . . fun . . . to go skating with you. Although it'll probably be boring for you, so only if you're willing. Anyway, I called Mom and asked her to send me my skates. In case you were willing. And if you can arrange it. So. Sidney, are you going to say anything, or just stand there like a lump and watch as I babble my way into incoherency?”

Sid decided to forgo words in favor of jumping across the bed. Andrew let out a startled “Oomph!” as Sid landed on top of him, but that didn't stop him from enthusiastically returning Sid's fervent kisses. Sid pulled his mouth away, after a time, and said, beaming, “I would love to go skating with you, Andrew! For sure!”

**********

“For the record, Sidney,” Andrew said under his breath, “this is not exactly what I had in mind.”

“What?” Sid said, in his most innocent voice. “You said you wanted to go skating.”

“Yes. With you. Not with a cast of thousands.” Andrew sighed. “I suppose it's my own fault. For explaining metonymy to you.”

“I forget what that means.”

“That is a total lie.”

“It really, really is.”

Andrew tried, unsuccessfully, not to laugh. “You only remember because I explained it in hockey terms.”

“Probably,” Sid said cheerfully. “Now: are you ready?”

“As ready as I'll ever be, I suppose. Gentlemen,” he called out, “please be kind.” And then he pushed off.

More than a dozen pairs of eyes watched him critically as he reacquainted himself with the ice. Initially tentative, he gradually increased his strides, and Sid could swear he could tell the exact moment when Andrew's muscle memory kicked in.

“He not bad at all,” Geno said consideringly. “How long it's been?”

“He said at least ten years.” Sid's grin couldn't have been wider, and he probably sounded like a proud uncle. Or something.

Tanger said something in French that made Flower and Duper laugh like hyenas.

“I heard that,” Andrew called out from the ice. And promptly fell down. Laughing himself, he clambered up, and started skating a lap. Then another, increasing his speed as his confidence grew. He slowed down as he approached Sid, but instead of stopping, he yanked Sid out with him. His cheeks were flushed, and his eyes were sparkling.

“I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed this,” he called out, as Sid matched his stride. Then Sid pulled ahead.

“Try to catch me?”

“Ooh, a challenge!”

After about twenty minutes, Geno skated over, holding two sticks.

“We try this now.”

“Oh no. No, no, no.”

“Yes, yes, yes.”

“Come on, Andrew; give it a try,” the rookie called out.

Andrew looked helplessly at Sid, who let the pleading look on his face speak for him. Andrew threw up his hands. “Okay, fine. But after this, I'm going to make you all sing something!”

**********

As they were getting changed, Sid became aware that _something_ was going on with the guys. He caught a brief interchange between Flower and Geno, and then he noticed the rookie and Nealer had their heads together. They then both looked over at Sid and Andrew, and Nealer laughed raucously, which didn't bode well.

“What's going on with the demonic duo?” Andrew asked under his breath.

“I don't know. But maybe we should get out of here?”

“You're a smart man, Captain Crosby.” Andrew grabbed his bag, but before they could escape, Nealer called out, “Hey, guys—hold on a minute.”

“Trapped,” Andrew muttered.

“What is it, Nealer?” Sid asked, his annoyance barely hidden.

“Nothing to do with you, Sid. We just want to tell Andrew something.”

“What? And who's we?” Like Sid couldn't see all the other guys massing around Nealer.

“Why so suspicious, Sid?” Assumed innocence looked even weirder on Nealer than it did on Geno. Stifling a laugh, Andrew stepped forward.

“What can I do for you gentlemen?”

“As some of you know, we've been trying to come up with a suitable nickname for our favorite opera singer. That's you, Andrew.”

“Why, thank you, James, for that stirring encomium. But I assure you, I'm perfectly content with the names I have.”

“But they're not hockey names, Andrew.” Sid's jaw dropped.

“And I'm not a hockey player, James.”

Nealer waved this technicality aside. “Still. Anyone who buys us as many drinks as you do deserves to have one.”

Sid stopped looking incredulously at his teammates and winced a little. If you ignored the complete lack of logic, which of course only a player would fully appreciate, that was virtually unarguable. And it seemed like Andrew recognized that fact, since he didn't say anything. Out loud, anyway.

“Anyway. I've been losing sleep trying to come up with something . . . suitable. And. . . .”

“So help me, James, if you've come up with something that has _anything_ to do with that story of Caroline's, I will kick you until you're dead.”

Nealer looked injured. “Would I do that?”

“Yes!” everybody, including Sid and Andrew, yelled at him.

He snickered. “I probably would. But I couldn't think of anything that wasn't likely to get me murdered in my sleep.”

“Good thing,” Sid said, absolutely deadpan; “Andrew wouldn't have waited until you slept.” That earned Andrew a round of heckling admiration.

“Anyway. . . .” This time, Tanger interrupted him.

“For Christ's sake, Nealer; will you get to the fucking point?”

“Fine,” Nealer huffed. “The point is, after consulting with the expert (and that's your Dad, Andrew), we decided . . . . ouch!”

“We?” the rookie said, drawing his elbow back. “Who's we?”

“Fine. Our baby Pen here came up with something that we all think is pretty much perfect.”

“And that is?” Andrew asked politely. Very politely.

“Ace.”

“Ace?” Andrew repeated. He seemed taken aback. “Why Ace?”

Nealer gestured towards the rookie, who explained, “It's kind of a play on your name. Your dad told us someone used to call you Double A. Well, Ace sounds like two A's. Plus: your other name: Singleton? In some card games—like bridge—a singleton ace can be a great thing to have in your hand.”

And then Nealer said, “Plus, we wanted to let you know that you're aces with us.”

Everybody groaned. The rookie jabbed him again. “You never know when to quit, do you, Nealer?”

“Hey! I'm serious!”

Andrew jumped in before the jeers could escalate. “Well, leaving the six pounds of cheese in that last remark aside, James, I appreciate the sentiment. And Tommy, I certainly can't argue with your reasoning. So . . . okay. If you guys think I deserve a hockey name, then I can't imagine anything better than Ace. So Ace it is.”

Everybody cheered, and then almost everybody reached down into their duffles, and pulled out bottles of champagne. Which they all shook. Andrew's eyes grew wide, and he attempted to bolt, but Sid, with Geno's help, held him in place.

“You have to be christened now. It's the law.”

“Sidney, no!” The first pop sounded, and a spray hit Andrew in the face.

“Oh, you fucking fuckers!” Andrew bellowed, with all of his considerable lung power.

Somewhere around the third or fourth pop, Andrew switched to Italian. Of course, by that point, he was laughing so hard, nobody could understand a word anyway.

**********

“They could at least have used decent champagne,” Andrew groused, as he rinsed his hair for the third time.

“I'm ignoring you,” Sid announced. He reached for a towel—he'd been caught in the flow almost as much as Andrew; Geno, who wasn't much better off, guffawed. Andrew shot him a dirty look and said something withering in Russian, which only made Geno laugh harder.

“I'm ignoring that too. Hey!” Struck by a thought, Sid stopped drying off. “It just occurred to me: it doesn't matter how many languages you speak; I can ignore you in all of them.” For some reason, that realization was immensely satisfying. To him, anyway: Andrew looked at him as if he were something stuck to the bottom of his shoe. If he'd been wearing shoes.

His shoes were probably ruined. Whatever: he could afford a new pair. Or Sid could, certainly. Although Andrew's shoes probably cost a lot more than his own did.

Sid shrugged off this inconsequential thought. He knew that, for all of his carping, Andrew had been deeply touched by what the guys had done. As was Sid. Much more than Andrew, probably, since Sid actually knew exactly what they'd done. So touched, in fact, that he'd offered to buy everybody lunch. Which he wanted to eat, very, very soon. If Andrew would ever stop washing.

“You turn into Nealer?” Geno asked, drying off his feet. “I'm not know anyone else spend so much time on hair.”

“At least I get better results,” Andrew snorted. But he shut off the water, and accepted the towel Sid held out to him.

“Maybe,” Geno acknowledged a little doubtfully, as he went to get dressed.

Since they were now alone for the first time since the baptism, Sid turned to Andrew and drew him into a hug.

“You okay?”

“I'm fine. It was very sweet of the guys—not that I'm going to admit that to anybody else for quite some time.”

“I think they were all impressed at how loud you can yell.”

Andrew preened. “Years of training,  _mon oie_ .” He wrapped his towel around himself. “So, I now have a hockey nickname.” 

Sid decided not to correct him.

Andrew went on, “Which I suppose I have to answer to.” He fixed Sid with a glare. “I hope you're not going to use it very much.”

“Not if you hate it. But I will use it sometimes. The guys will be insulted if I don't.”

“There is that.” Andrew thought for a second. “Okay. You have my permission to use it whenever you want. However. . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Um?” Sid glanced over, and was kind of surprised to see Andrew looking . . . shy.

“If you want . . . you could also call me Sasha sometimes.”

Sid felt his jaw drop. Again. “Really?”

“Sure,” Andrew shrugged. But Sid was not at all taken in by his nonchalance; he had a pretty good idea what that invitation signified.

“I'd like that. A lot . . . Sasha.” He grabbed Andrew and hugged him again; he hoped he didn't start to cry.

Andrew hugged him back just as tightly, patted his back a few times, and then kissed him behind his ear.

“So.” He cleared his throat. “Let's get dressed and go have lunch. I'm starving.”

“Me too.” Sid led the way back to the dressing room, where Geno was already tying his shoes.

“See you soon? Better hurry; guys might eat all the food.”

“We'll be quick,” Sid promised, and with a nod, Geno left.

“You do know, don't you, Sidney,” Andrew said, as he donned his borrowed clothes with some distaste, “that the little ceremony we just . . . endured, was as much for you as it was for me?”

Sid just stared. How could Andrew know. . . ?

“And that you don't have to worry about coming out to the guys any more?”

Coming out? What. . . ? Oh. Sid shook his head to clear it. And Andrew started laughing.

“Oh, come on, Sidney. The team thinks I'm aces? What in God's name did you think James meant?”

“I never know what Nealer means. When he's not talking about hockey, anyway. And not always then.” Sid scrunched his forehead in thought. “Do you really think so?”

“I do. Most definitely.”

“Huh.” Then he smiled widely. “Looks like I did good then, didn't I? Ace?”

Andrew rolled his eyes, but before he could say anything, Sid reached over and touched Andrew's cheek. “Thank you, Sasha.”

“You're entirely welcome,  _mon oie_ .” Andrew's eyes were bright, and his tone was fond, and Sid was very, very happy.

**********

Lunch was essentially one long chirping session, interrupted only by beer and more food. No one escaped, and Sid was vastly amused when Nealer called Caroline the rookie's girlfriend. The rookie just rolled his eyes, so Tanger got in on the act then, and mock-paternally told the rookie that he clearly needed to win the Cup, because obviously he'd never be able to make game with women without a ring.

The rookie turned bright red and started spluttering, and Sid had to wonder if it was the comment in general, or the part about women in particular—and then Andrew, maybe out of genuine interest, and maybe just to divert attention, asked a question.

“Are you serious, Kris? I mean, is that actually a thing? Do guys who've won the Cup use their rings as . . . what, lures?”

A general chorus of agreement rose from the table—well, from certain parts of the table—as well as a crude comment or two about what just the sight of a championship ring did to puck bunnies.

Andrew shook his head. “I think that's ridiculous.” Duper asked him why, and he said, “It's so . . . impersonal. I mean, that would be like me going into a bar and waving one of my Grammy's in somebody's face.”

There was a moment's silence from everybody, and then Flower said, “Wait. _One_ of your Grammy's? How many have you won?”

Looking a little embarrassed, Andrew said, “Well, technically, three, but one is shared. Anyway, that's not important. My point is: why on earth would you want to be with somebody who. . . .”

Nealer interrupted him. “Fuck, I'd love to sleep with a Grammy winner.” He eyed Andrew. “Ace, you win one more, and I'll sleep with _you_.”

“ _Col cazzo_ ,” Andrew said pleasantly. “Which is Italian for 'not until two weeks after never.'”

“I'd rather sleep with an Oscar winner,” somebody else said, over the jeering laughter. “One Oscar's got to be better than two Grammy's.”

“But he have three,” Geno threw in. “One shared, but still count, I think.” And the debate was on.

Andrew shook his head disgustedly. “I'm sorry I said anything,” he remarked to Sid. Sid didn't reply, so Andrew turned and looked directly at him. “Why are you so quiet? Is something wrong? If it's because of what James said, then you're an idiot.”

Sid shook his head. “No, it's not that.” He paused, and then blurted out, “How come you never told me you've won three Grammy's?”

The noise from the others abated as they started listening.

“Why on earth would I?”

“I don't know. It's kind of a big deal.”

“Did you tell me you've won the Cup? Or Olympic gold?”

“I could have,” Sid said honestly. “In fact, I think I did.”

Andrew threw his hands up in the air. “Well, I don't know why I didn't, Sidney. Maybe I didn't think I had to.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” and Andrew stretched the word out, “you've been in my apartment. They're right there in plain sight in the living room.”

“They are?” Sid considered. “Wait. Maybe I don't know what a Grammy looks like?”

Pulling out his phone with exaggerated patience, Andrew surfed for a picture, and shoved it in Sid's face. “There.”

Sid shook his head. “I've never seen one of these before. Where in your living room?”

“They're in the bookcase next to the fireplace.”

“Oh, the bookcase.” Sid felt vindicated. “That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“Obviously, I thought they were bookends.”

There was a murmur of understanding and/or agreement from around the table, and Andrew slumped in his chair. To nobody in particular, he remarked, “How do hockey players ever make it out of the womb?”

**********

When Andrew went to the men's room, Sid decided to seize the opportunity. “Guys,” he said, feeling a little awkward.

Everybody shut up and looked at him.

Sid thought for a second, and then decided he was over-thinking. He opened his mouth and said, simply, “Thanks.”

He let the various versions of “You're welcome,” “For what?” and “ _De rien_ ” wash over him. Then Geno stood up.

“I know I'm not need to say, but I say anyway. What happen with team, stay with team. Yes?”

Almost all of the guys—the French-Canadians in particular—looked insulted.

“Like we would say anything, G,” Nealer scowled. “You think we _want_ the shitstorm that would happen? Fuck that.”

Everybody more or less agreed, and Geno nodded, satisfied.

“I'm just make sure. Is important.”

All of a sudden, the rookie spoke up.

“It is important. And . . . as long as we're talking about things that stay with the team: Caroline's not my girlfriend. And it's not because _her_ girlfriend wouldn't like it.” He took a deep breath. “I've never had a girlfriend, and I seriously doubt I ever will. So if you want to chirp me about something, how about the fact that I really fucking wish that Ace had a little brother.”

There was a moment's silence, as most of the guys exchanged _very_ surprised glances—and then Sid said, in his best deadpan tone, “He _does_ have a cousin.”

The table exploded.

**********

When he got back from the bathroom, Andrew was understandably surprised by the barrage of questions about his cousin.

“Which one? And why?”

Nealer said, “Sid says you have a cousin who'd be a good fit for our rookie here.” He rubbed the top of Tommy's head, and got a healthy shove for his trouble. “Seeing as how you're already taken.”

Andrew raised an eyebrow, and Sid said repressively, “All I said was that you have a cousin. Gordon?”

Making the world's most unimpressed face, Andrew said, “Gordon's a douche.” And proving that Sid wasn't . . . involved . . . with an idiot, he added, “I wouldn't wish him on a Flyer.” He leaned across the table. “Don't worry, Tommy; we'll find you a nice Blackhawk to settle down with.”

It wasn't the first time the team had been asked to leave a restaurant or bar, Sid reflected as he settled the bill, but at least they'd been asked politely. And they didn't even charge for the chair Nealer had broken when he'd fallen off it.

 


	12. Chapter 12

As they walked towards Sid's car, Andrew remarked, “Well, this certainly isn't what I expected when I asked you to take me skating.”

“Uh, me either,” Sid said fervently. Then he added, “The skating kind of got overlooked, what with . . . all the rest of it, but I wanted to tell you: you were pretty good. Out of practice, for sure, but we could almost see you getting better out there. If you keep at it, you'll be really good.”

“Well, maybe I'll try to find a place at home. I always enjoyed skating. More than skiing, which Mom loves. There's something . . . oh, I don't know, exhilarating, about the whole process: it's a balancing act. Kind of like certain kinds of singing.” He laughed a little. “I can't tell you how tempted I was to open my mouth and just let loose.”

“You should have,” Sid said seriously, after thinking about it for a few seconds. “I know I would have enjoyed it.”

“Well, maybe next time.”

Sid put the key in the ignition, but didn't start the engine. “Do you have a lot to do this afternoon?”

Andrew shook his head. “Nope. Why?”

“'Cause I should go talk to Mario.” Sid sighed. “He needs to know what's going on.”

“Probably not a bad idea. If it's not too inconvenient, would you drop me off first?”

“I can,” Sid said slowly, “but actually, why don't you come with me?”

“Because I don't want to be in the way? Because it might be really awkward if I'm there? Because I'm not sure it's appropriate? Those seem like good reasons to me.”

“Not as good as 'I'd really like it if you came with me.'”

“Says you.”

“Please?”

Andrew let out a sigh that lasted at least six or seven seconds. “Fine. Okay.”

Good. “Thanks.” He started the car. “And Nathalie will probably be home. You like her, right? And the kids are great.”

“I do like Nathalie. And I like kids.” He squirmed a little. “I just wish I were dressed better. I don't like wearing other people's clothes.”

Sid glanced over. “You look fine.”

“Sidney. You have good taste in suits, I will admit. Although I wonder if you take someone with you when you get them. But forgive me if I say that I don't think you're qualified to give fashion advice—since 95% of everything else you wear has a penguin on it.”

“That estimate may be a little low.”

**********

Nathalie was as pleased to see Sid as always, and if she was surprised to see Andrew with him, she hid it well. Sid hadn't seen the kids for a while, and spent a few minutes with them before Mario came in.

“Sid. Is there a problem?”

“Uh, no. Not exactly. But . . . you have a few minutes?”

“Of course.”

Sid looked around, and Andrew waved cheerfully at him before pointedly turning back to Nathalie.

Okay, then. Sid squared his shoulders and followed Mario to his study.

“So. Some stuff happened. And I thought you should know.”

“All right.” Mario waited.

“Um. I kind of came out to the guys. I think.”

After a pause, Mario said, “You _think_.”

“Well, I didn't say anything, you know, explicit. Or anything at all, actually. But Andrew said it was pretty obvious. And maybe it was. 'Cause at lunch, the rookie came out too. Um, and he was a lot more definite about it. Since, you know, he actually said something. And Geno made everybody promise not to say anything. Although that might have been before the rookie said his thing. But still. Anyway. So. Now you know.” He started to stand up.

“A moment, Sid.”

Sid plopped back down.

Mario studied him. “I thought you were determined not to say anything to the team.”

“I was. And I didn't, really.” Sid scratched his head. “I thought I said that already?”

Mario's lips twitched. “I think perhaps you did. Or didn't, as the case may be. In any event: may I ask what made you change your mind?”

Sid opened his mouth, but before he could say anything, Mario raised his hand.

“I suspect you're going to say that you didn't change your mind,” (Sid snapped his mouth shut), “so let me rephrase. How did it happen that the team now knows?”

“I'm not really sure,” Sid said weakly. “I didn't say anything.”

“Yes, we've covered that point already.”

“Oh. Yeah. Um. Sorry.”

Mario waved his hand. “Let me guess. This has something to do with Andrew.”

Sid nodded. And then—he couldn't help it. He just started smiling. And all of a sudden, he was talking.

“I think it probably had everything to do with Andrew. We . . . uh, we've been spending a lot of time together. It's . . . Mario, it's just . . . so good.”

Mario smiled back at Sid. “You look happy, Kid.”

“I am. The guys gave him a hockey name.”

“Did they?” Mario rubbed his chin. “Well, if they did that, then I imagine there won't be any fallout from them. Except: are you planning on going public?”

“No!” Fuck no, in fact.

“If you want to, you can, Sid. I'll support whatever you decide.”

Sid shook his head decisively. “I don't want to.”

“What about . . . what about Andrew? Does he want you to? For that matter, is he?”

“He's never said it officially. 'Cause I guess he's never been asked. But most people he works with know, I guess.” Sid squirmed a little. “We talked about it a little. He won't lie, if he's asked.” He told Mario about the television interview, and how Andrew had responded.

Mario mulled that over for a while. “I think that's a very good strategy, to associate himself with the team as a whole,” he said; Sid thought he might be a little surprised. “It might serve very well. Then again, it might not. Time will tell.

“Sid. I'm glad that you're happy. I'm glad that Andrew makes you happy. But if I may: two things you may not want to hear. Just being seen together may be enough for rumors to start. From what Nathalie tells me, he's as famous in his circles as you are in ours. Plus, there are his parents, who are not exactly low profile. It's best to be prepared. I think you should have a talk with Pat Brisson, so if he starts getting calls to confirm, he'll know how to respond.”

Blowing out a breath, Sid said, “You're probably right.” Glumly, he added, “You said two things. What's the other?”

After hesitating—visibly—Mario leaned forward. “Sid. You know I am not in the habit of prying, or of offering advice unasked. But . . . to the best of my knowledge, this is your first real relationship. So I ask you to consider the possibility that things may be moving too quickly.”

Sid couldn't help it; he laughed. And then he laughed again at the expression on Mario's face.

“Fuck, Mario. Don't you think I know that? Even I'm not that clueless. If it's any consolation, I can't tell you the number of times I've made myself slow down. Or tried to, anyway.”

Mario frowned. “Is he putting pressure on you to. . . ?”

Sid interrupted him. “Absolutely not.” His tone could not have been more definite. “It's me, Mario. Me. I want . . . I want to talk to him all the time. I want to _see_ him all the time. Being with him . . . I've never felt like this in my whole life. I never even thought I _could_ feel like this. Off the ice, anyway. And the fucking irony of it is, he's so nice, and happy, and generous, and . . . and _solicitous_ —and he's also so fucking guarded sometimes, I can't stand it. I don't think he even realizes it. Once in a while, he says something, or does something, that I know is a real big deal to him, and I think to myself, 'Sid, it's not just you. He feels it too.' But I don't know if he knows it.”

Pinching the top of his nose, Mario sighed. "Sid, where do you see this going?”

“I . . . honestly don't know. He's leaving town next week. I don't know when I'll see him again.” He laughed again, a little wildly. “You know, when we first started becoming friends, we made a deal. He'd learn more about hockey, and I'd learn more about opera. But our actual jobs had to come first.” He laughed again. “And he's the one who said that, not me. Why the fuck did I have to fall for somebody who's as driven as I am? And who has a job that's every bit as demanding as mine is?”

This time, Mario's sigh seemed to come from his toes. “I don't know, Sid.” He paused, and then added, “If I didn't know you better, I'd say you look for ways to make your life more complicated than it already is.”

“Mario, believe me when I say I wasn't looking for any of this.” And he hadn't been. But now that he'd found it. . . .

Sid decided he'd had enough talking.

“Are we finished? Or do we still have to talk about the rookie?”

“Let's not. I'll have to think about what to do—whether or not I should let him know I know. He might not appreciate the fact that you told me.”

Sid shrugged. “Mario, we agreed to keep it in the team. You're the team.” He stood up. “I'll tell him I told you. And . . . how about I say that you'd welcome talking to him, if he thinks there's anything to say?”

“That sounds fine. You wear your C well.”

Sid flushed a little, like he always did when Mario praised him.

Mario opened the study door, and motioned for Sid to go ahead of him. As they approached the living room, Sid heard Andrew say, “Well, I like Disney songs too. But I can't sing that one.” He stopped outside of the door and listened.

Mario's youngest daughter said, “Why not?”

Her brother threw in scornfully. “That's a girl song.”

“Well, you're sort of right. I could sing it, but it wouldn't sound right, because I'd have to adjust it for my voice. But—have you seen the movie _Hercules_?”

They both said yes, and Andrew said, “Remember this song?” And then he started singing “I Can Go the Distance.”

Sid peeked in and saw him, sitting on the floor with the kids, his voice filling the room. Easily. He glanced at Mario, who had an impressed look on his face.

When Andrew finished, the kids started clamoring for more, but Sid walked in.

“You're supposed to clap, after he sings a song,” he told them. “And if you really liked it, you yell out 'Bravo!'”

The kids exchanged doubtful looks. “How come? And why didn't you clap?”

“'Cause he wasn't singing it to me. I was sneaky and listening outside.”

“Well, you still heard it, so if we have to clap, you do too.”

Sid really loved kids' logic. Probably because he understood it.

“You don't have to do anything,” Andrew said, getting up. “Don't listen to Sidney. I gave him a private concert one night, and he fell asleep during it. There I was, singing and singing, and all of a sudden, I heard him snoring. Like this.” He then uttered an absolutely inhuman noise that had the kids roaring.

Sid said indignantly, “I don't snore. And I certainly don't snore like that!”

“How would you know?” Andrew retorted. “You were asleep.” The kids started giggling again, and Andrew winked at them. “Do you remember when Sidney lived here? You must have heard him snore, even in a big house like this. Or maybe you heard him laugh.” And he then uttered the call of the Canadian hockey goose. Which set everybody off—even Sid.

Nathalie shooed the kids off, and somehow, Sid found himself holding a glass of wine he didn't really want while listening to Mario ask Andrew very polite questions that nonetheless were nothing other than an interrogation.

Andrew seemed perfectly at home, but Sid still sent a hopeful look in Nathalie's direction, hoping she would intervene. Which she did, but not in the way Sid had wanted.

“Did I hear you say your last performances are coming up, Andrew?”

When Andrew nodded, she said, “If we can find a time—say, near the end of next week—I'd like very much for the two of you to come here for dinner.”

“That sounds lovely, Nathalie.” Andrew thought for a minute. “I think it would have to be Thursday. My final performance is Saturday, and Sidney has games Wednesday and Friday. Don't you, Sidney?” His voice was perfectly innocent—unlike almost everybody else Sid knew, Andrew could actually act the part—but Sid did not miss the quick glance Andrew cast at Mario, nor his gleam of satisfaction at Mario's expression of surprise. All of a sudden, he felt better.

“I think so,” Sid replied cheerfully. His mood improved even more when he noticed Nathalie trying to hide her smile in her wine glass.

“Do you have any time off before your next engagement, Andrew?” she asked.

“A bit. Three or four days, I think, although I may have to go to New York somewhere in there. And then I have a concert in D.C.”

“I imagine it will be a relief to spend a little time in your own home,” Mario said.

“It will be,” Andrew agreed readily. He took a sip of his wine, and as Mario did the same, he added, “I confess, though: I'm going to miss Sidney's sheets.”

Mario choked a little on his wine. Nathalie and Sid started to laugh, but Andrew merely raised an eyebrow and looked at Mario blandly. After a second or two, Mario started to laugh himself, and then he raised his glass to Andrew.

“ _Touché_.”

**********

Mario behaved himself after that, but as soon as they were out the door—with a firm dinner invitation for Thursday—Sid tried to apologize, but Andrew laughed him off.

“Please, Sidney. It's obvious he cares a lot about you—he and Nathalie both. He was just being protective. Though I will say, he was a little clumsy about it. He needs more practice, for when his kids start dating seriously—if they haven't already.” He laughed again. “Good thing he didn't try that on my mother, though.”

Sid thought about that for a few seconds, and then snickered. “She'd have wiped the floor with him, without even breaking a sweat.”

Andrew stopped short, looked at Sid, and in his mother's voice, said, “Sidney, ladies do not sweat. Nor do they perspire. They grow damp.” Then, in his own voice, he added, “She told me that once, and then she laughed hysterically. I have no idea what she was quoting. And then Dad said,” and his voice changed again, “Well, I'm very glad I married a woman, then, and not a lady.”

Sid could just see it. He shook his head and then remarked, “You're so good at imitating people. How do you do it?”

“Thank you. And I have no idea. I've always been able to do it. Well, since I hit puberty, or thereabouts.” He shrugged. “It must have something to do with being a good listener, and being trained at making all sorts of noises.”

Sid bumped shoulders with him; “I like a lot of the noises you make.” He followed this up with his version of a leer. He expected a chirp, and he wasn't disappointed.

“You should have gone before we left their house.”

**********

As they were standing in Sid's kitchen fixing dinner, Andrew asked how the talk with Mario had gone.

Sid rolled his eyes. “Okay, I guess.” He gave a bare-bones recap of the beginning. He then hesitated, and said, “There was another thing he said. That I guess we should talk about.”

“Okay.” Andrew put down Sid's new garlic press (which Andrew had bought, of course, as part of his crusade to bring the kitchen to what he called a “semi-respectable standard of usefulness”), and looked expectantly at Sid.

“He wants me to talk to my agent. 'Cause he said that if we're seen together, it could start rumors, so Pat should be in the loop.”

Andrew nodded, and made a “go on” gesture.

“And he said that what you did in your interview was a really good idea. The whole 'team, not me' thing.”

“Hmmm.” Andrew considered that, and then shrugged. “Sometimes improvisations work. But, as almost anyone who sings baroque or bel canto opera will tell you, the best improvisations are usually the ones that only _seem_ like improvisations. Still, it's worth thinking about, I suppose. Anything else?”

Sid decided on honesty. “A couple of things. That I want to think about a little before I talk about them. Is that okay?”

“Of course it is, Sidney. You don't even have to ask that question.” Andrew seemed totally serious. Which was nice. So Sid walked around the island and gave him a hug. Which Andrew returned. Which was also nice.

But instead of going back to his garlic, Andrew sighed. “All right, Sidney. It's time for us to make a decision.”

Sid's heart sank. “About what?”

“About whether or not we're going to be all adult and shit, and talk about the elephant in the room—which, before you ask, is what's going to happen when I have to leave Pittsburgh.”

“Ugh.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

Sid thought about what to say—and he could tell from the way Andrew was standing that he was waiting for Sid to make the decision. And Sid imagined that Andrew would, in fact, go along with whatever decision Sid made. Which was kind of nice, but more than a little frustrating.

“Well,” he said slowly, “we probably should. But actually . . . I want to. Really want to, in fact.”

Andrew let out a sound—of relief, Sid realized, as he saw Andrew's stance relax; he must have been more tense than Sid thought.

“Did you think that I wouldn't?” he asked, feeling a little stung.

“Honestly, I didn't think so, but I didn't know for sure. To repeat something we've both said any number of times, neither of us really knows what we're doing. And even though I usually prefer to deal with life head-on, I confess I've been reluctant to start that particular conversation.”

“Why?” Sid asked bluntly.

“Because,” and Andrew took a deep breath, “I've been having such a wonderful time with you, Sidney, and I don't want it to end. And even though I know I have to leave . . . and have known, from the beginning . . . I've been letting myself ignore that particular fact. Denial isn't just a river in Egypt, as the saying goes. But having the conversation that we both know we have to have—and both want to, really, because despite what I just said, I know it's necessary—won't let me do that any more.” He laughed, but the sound didn't have his usual humor. “And let's face it: when I leave, things will be very different. But it's also entirely possible that things will be very different even before I leave, depending on how our conversation goes. So, having said all of that, should we get it out of the way now or should we wait until after we eat?”

“To be all adult and shit?” Sid asked, summoning a slight smile from somewhere.

“Precisely.”

“Now is probably better; otherwise, that elephant will be eating with us.”

“You're probably right. Let me just get this out of the way.” He finished pressing the garlic into in a little bowl, and put the bowl in the fridge.

“I'm having a little more wine. Do you want some?”

“Sure.”

Andrew handed him a glass, and then sat at the island. Without hesitating, he said, “The last time we had a quote unquote serious discussion, you went first, so I think it's my turn.”

“Okay.”

Andrew studied his glass for a minute, but didn't drink from it. Then he looked directly at Sid.

“Sidney. Do you think it would be crazy if we tried to keep our relationship going, even though it would have to be primarily long-distance for the foreseeable future?”

When Andrew decided to face life head-on, he didn't fuck around. Sid considered how to answer. “It might be,” he said at last. “That doesn't mean I don't want to.” He paused, and then said, “I mean, what's the alternative?”

“I suppose,” Andrew replied slowly, “one alternative would be going back to the way things were before this trip. If that's even possible.”

“It's not,” Sid said, with as much certainty as he could command. “Besides, of course, we'll be doing that.” He saw Andrew start to smile at the “of course,” but he didn't let himself get distracted. “Our phone calls. The games we watch. You could even sing to me over the phone. The only thing we can't do long-distance that we do now is be in the same place at the same time. The alternative . . .” he took a deep breath, “the alternative would have to be us not being friends at all. And I don't want that. At all.”

“I don't either,” Andrew said definitely. “And that's what I've been afraid of.”

“I can't imagine us not being friends. I don't _want_ to imagine it. And now that we're. . . . Wait. As long as we're being adults. Sasha, are we just friends, still?”

Andrew's smile gave Sid the answer he wanted before he even said a word.

“Sidney. Let me tell you something. I don't let friends call me Sasha. Ever. My friends call me Andrew. Very occasionally, Alex.” He made a little face. “And now Ace, I suppose. In fact, I think the only people to whom I'm not related by blood or marriage who call me Sasha are people whom Mom and Dad consider family, so that's actually family by proxy. No, _mon oie_ , we are more than mere friends now. Not that I know precisely what we are, exactly. Even though I use it sometimes out of convenience, I've never really liked the term 'lovers,' and 'boyfriends' seems a bit high school, somehow.”

“Better 'boyfriends' than 'lovers.' For sure. How about we just say we're us?”

“That works for me. How about you give me a hug, oh half of us?”

“With pleasure, oh, uh, other half of us?”

They stood there, swaying a bit. And then Andrew sighed. “I'm glad we had this little chat, Sidney. But you know: it's not going to be easy.”

“I know that. Good thing neither of us is afraid of a little hard work.”

“True. And it's also lucky that we both enjoy a challenge.”

“Also true. And you know what challenge I'd like to face right now?”

“What?”

“I think I need to practice my breath control.”

**********

“You know something, Sidney?”

“Mmmph?”

“We'll make a singer of you yet.”

“Mmmmm.”

**********

Helping himself to the last piece of chicken, Sid asked, “Have you ever had phone sex?”

“Gee, let me think: oh, that would be no.” Andrew rolled his eyes. “For God's sake, Sidney: I never even give people I've had sex with my phone number, so that makes it rather difficult to have phone sex with them.“ Then he cocked his head, arrested. “No, wait: I just lied. Well, not really. I _tried_ to have phone sex with my prep school boyfriend. Once. It didn't go well.”

“Why not?”

“I couldn't.” Andrew was blushing faintly, and Sid was fascinated.

“Couldn't what?”

“Stop laughing!” And that set them both off.

After he'd calmed down, Andrew asked, “Have you?”

Sid snorted.

“I'll take that for a 'no.' Why do you ask?”

“I don't know. I thought it might be something we could try.” Now _he_ was blushing. “You know, hotel rooms aren't exactly sound-proof, and before the lockout, we always had roommates. I . . . heard some stuff.”

“Really? Who?”

“I'm not going to tell you that!”

“Why not?”

“That would be a violation of privacy,” Sid said primly.

“Sidney, I'm fairly certain that listening to someone have phone sex is a worse violation of privacy.”

“I didn't listen,” Sid began indignantly, but then his voice trailed off as he said, “I . . . overheard.”

“That is total sophistry.”

“I don't even know what that means.”

“Look it up, Sidney.”

“I would—if I could spell it. Anyway: most of what I overheard was really kind of gross, but a couple of times I heard one of the guys talking to his wife, and that was . . . nice.”

“Nice?” Andrew made that word sound like it had four syllables.

“Yes, nice. And kind of hot,” Sid admitted.

“Ah. That would be important. Would it be an invasion of privacy to ask why it was hot, and not gross?”

“You're chirping me, aren't you?”

“Only a little, to be honest. Since you weren't (I presume) actually taking part in the phone sex, then answering my question would tell me why _you_ found it hot. Logically, then, the only privacy I'm invading is yours. And let's assume, since you brought up the whole topic of phone sex in the first place, that I now have a vested interest in doing so.”

Sid stared at him for a minute. “You know,” he said eventually, “I can't figure out why I'm a little turned on right now. How do you manage to make talking like Mr. Spock sound kind of sexy?”

Andrew half-closed his eyes, leaned forward, and said softly, “It's all in the voice, _mon oie_. It's called,” and he paused for a moment, “ _innuendo_.” He practically purred the last word, and his tone promised so much that Sid actually shivered.

“Well,” Andrew said in his normal voice, leaning back; “I can see this has real possibilities.”

Sid looked around. “Where'd I leave my phone?” he asked, only half-joking.

“Maybe later. Do you feel like answering my question now?”

It took Sid a minute to remember what the question was.

“I'm not sure if it'll make any sense. But the gross stuff was all about the guy, sort of, and the nice stuff was about the both of them.” Seeing that Andrew didn't really find this useful, he said, “Ugh. Okay. Example one: 'This great big dick of mine misses you, baby.' Example two: 'I really wish I were there; I'd love to make you go to pieces while you're riding my face.'”

When he could finally speak again, Andrew said, “Oh my God, Sidney; I can't even tell you how funny that was. You do know you were using your media mode voice, don't you? You sounded like you were explaining, in your best scrupulously polite but patently pissed off manner, where the power play went wrong.”

Sid considered this. “Point,” he conceded, only a little grudgingly. “Anyway: maybe we can try it for real sometime. And you're probably right, you know? The tone is maybe more important than the words. I mean, I don't understand the words for most everything you sing, and yet I certainly feel tons when I'm listening to you.”

Andrew got that kind of bashful look on his face that Sid really didn't understand but still liked a lot. He leaned over and kissed Sid. “You are so, so good for my ego. And of course we can try it. Later. Right now,” and he made his voice sound like a caress, “we should really take advantage of our . . . propinquity.”

Sid shivered again. “I don't even know what that is, but it sounds good, for sure.”

Resting his forehead against Sid's, Andrew smiled. “It's not a what. It's a where.”

“Even better.”

“And since it's well after sundown, on the night before a game, I imagine the where will be the couch in your media room.”

“I really like the way you think. Should I pick the game, or do you want to?”

“You should. But I will express a preference, should there be a Hawks game on.”

“Any particular reason?”

“I just thought we could continue the avian theme.”

On his way out of the kitchen, Sid stopped. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“Well, I had a Penguin before dinner, and then we had chicken. So. . . .”

Sid stared at him for a moment. “You know, even though we call them that, I don't think we're actually referring to a bird.”

Andrew shrugged, unconcerned. “The name had to come from somewhere.”

“Okay,” Sid said slowly. “Hawks.” And then, since it seemed to work for Andrew, he paused. “Or maybe the Ducks.”

“'One if by land, two if by sea.'”

Sid shook his head. “And people call me insane,” he muttered. He managed to keep the grin off his face until he was out of sight.

**********

“Well, that was invigorating,” Andrew remarked at the end of the game. “For a while there, I thought your friend Jonathan was going to have a stroke.”

In his best monotone, Sid said, “We Canadian hockey robots are not subject to human frailties.”

“Oh, my mistake,” Andrew said, trying to keep a straight face. “I should have said he was heading straight for a servo replacement.”

“Much better,” Sid intoned. Then, in his normal voice, he asked, “You ready for bed?”

“Not just yet. In fact, if you're not too tired, there's something I want to show you.”

“Sure.”

Andrew strode out of the room, and returned a minute or so later with his laptop.

“Okay,” he said, sitting down, “prepare to see my secret geeky side.” He opened the laptop, entered his password, and clicked on a icon.

A map appeared on the screen. Sid squinted at it.

“What are . . . wait, are those penguins?”

“Yep. Those are the cities you're playing in for the rest of the season. I thought the symbolism was appropriate.”

Sid was liking this already. “And those things are where you'll be, right?”

Andrew nodded. “Those are treble clefs.”

“My icon is much better,” Sid declared. Then he frowned. “How come some of your clef things are bigger than my penguins?”

“Oh, I thought that was a nice touch, too. The icons change size based upon the length of time we're in each place. The longer the stay, the bigger the icon. Clever, no?”

Sid didn't say anything. Andrew glanced over at him.

“Is something wrong? Wait, are you _pouting_? Jesus Christ, Sidney: competitive much?”

“Hey, we're guys. Guys are supposed to be concerned with size. It's in our genetic code or something.”

Andrew muttered something in yet another language Sid didn't understand. “If it's any consolation, you have more penguins than I do clefs. And your home penguin is bigger than my home clef.”

“Really?”

Andrew rolled his eyes ostentatiously and pointed. Sid peered at Pittsburgh, and then at Boston.

“Oh. Okay.”

“May I continue, now that your ego has been massaged?”

“'As you wish.'”

“I'm never going to be able to watch that movie again, am I?” Andrew remarked to the air. “Anyway: this map is essentially a visual representation of a database. I built it first to do this.” He pulled down a menu, clicked on a few things, and then hit Enter. The map changed.

“Here are all the cities I'm visiting for the next six months, where the visits last more than three days.” He pulled down the menu again, and clicked on something else. “And here are the cities that have hockey teams—see those sticks?”

Sid nodded, but couldn't help but say, “You should use the actual team logos for each city.”

“Why, thank you, Captain Crosby, for that helpful suggestion. I'll be sure and add that refinement to a later version.”

“Don't mention it,” Sid said graciously.

“Believe me, I won't. Ever. Now, if I do this,” he clicked on something else, “then the program highlights where the two data sets intersect. So. Tell me which teams are worth going to see in person. And before you inform me that any hockey game is worth watching,” Sid closed his mouth, “please remember that I have a limited amount of free time.”

Sid compromised with two lists: cities to go to games in person, and cities worth catching the game on a local station.

“Okay. Now then. Let's put your penguins back on the map.” He did so. “And . . . _voilà_! Here are the places where our schedules overlap.”

“Only one?” Sid was disappointed.

“I know. But actually, it's better than it looks. Only one place, but more than one time.” He did something, and the view changed. Now there were dates.

“You'll be in New York, as far as I can tell, for nearly a week. You play the Devils and the Rangers, then off to play the Blue Jackets, and then back to play the Islanders. I'm there the whole time, and while I'm performing the night you play the Rangers, I'm off for the other two games.”

“That's great,” Sid said; “I'll put in for tickets.”

“And if this schedule is accurate, it seems you're free for one of my performances the night before you play the Islanders. Want to come?”

“Sure.” Sid didn't hesitate, and Andrew looked pleased, which was good. But. . . .

“That's not 'til March!”

“I know. But there are a couple of other possibilities, I think. We won't be in the same place, but we might be pretty close.” He accessed the menu again, and made some choices.

“This shows where we're within 200 miles of each other. Obviously, I can change the distance parameter, but that seemed doable.”

“Obviously.” And at Andrew's raised eyebrow, Sid explained, “I'm only chirping you a little. It might be obvious to you, but I have no idea how you did any of this.”

Mollified, Andrew said, “Well, I am my dad's son, you know. Anyway: this part needs work. Do you . . . no, let me rephrase. Does anybody in your office know the actual travel schedule? By that, I mean, whether you go the same day, the day before, or what?”

“Someone might. I can ask.”

“That would be a help. Then I can make a more accurate assessment about whether or not there's any way we could meet.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Here's a real question, and please, answer it honestly.” He pointed to the map. Specifically, to California. “Let's assume that you arrive in Los Angeles the night before you play the Kings. I'm in San Diego that day for a rehearsal for a concert the following night. Would you be willing to meet me somewhere in between?”

“In theory, yes.” Sid thought for a second. “But I'd have to clear it with Mario and Coach. And. . . .”

“What?”

“Well, it'd be the night before a game,” Sid said, a little sheepishly. “Would you still want to get together?”

“Sidney.” Andrew's tone held a real edge. “As much as I've been enjoying the truly stupendous sex we've been having, I am not going to all of this trouble to arrange a booty call. Disabuse your mind of that notion once and for all, please; I am not now, nor will I ever be, your puck buddy.”

When he was once again capable of something other than honking spasmodically, Sid said, “Where the _fuck_ did you come up with that?”

“It seemed obvious. Since I am patently even less suited to be a puck bunny. I'm sure I'm not the first person to come up with the term.”

“Well, I've never heard it before. You make me laugh so much, Sasha.”

“Well, good. But remember what I said.”

“I know. Of course I know. And I didn't mean to say anything bad.”

“It wasn't bad exactly . . . oh, never mind. We've wasted enough time on that. Anyway: ask your coach and Mario about California. And even if they say no, then I still may be able to see you after you play the Ducks; that's an afternoon game. I need to finalize a couple of things; it's possible I don't need to be back east until Monday afternoon, in which case I could fly back late Sunday night.”

“I'll put in for tickets for that one too.”

“Okay. Well, let's table this for now.” But he studied the screen for a minute, before powering down. “I have to say, I really wish you were playing the Hawks when I'm actually in Chicago.”

“We play them here too,” Sid offered, but Andrew shook his head.

“I know. But my schedule's impossible that week.” Andrew shrugged. “Well, at least I'll get to see them when I'm there. Or I hope so, anyway. But I'd rather see you too.” He yawned.

“You go get ready for bed,” Sid said. “I'll be up in a minute.”

“Will do. See you soon.”

Sid gathered up the empty water bottles and put them in the recycling bin. Then, on an impulse, he took a detour and went into Andrew's music room. The piano gleamed dully in the light from the hallway, and Sid walked over to it. He pressed a key at random, and listened to the tone until it faded away. He stood there, motionless, for a few more seconds. Then, feeling satisfied for some unknown reason, he left the room and headed upstairs.

 


	13. Chapter 13

Morning skate the next day began like any other. Sid was the first to arrive, followed by the rookie, and then by the other guys. Everybody said good morning, or waved, or grunted, depending on their dispositions. It all seemed . . . the same. Which was a relief, Sid thought, but there was a tiny voice in the furthest recesses of his brain that kept piping up, saying, “No, everything's different.”

Sid didn't like that voice at all.

It was one of Coach's “measured” practices, which was typical of a game day, and at the end, he gathered everybody around and announced his preliminary plans for that night. To nobody's real surprise, he finished by saying, “Subject to change, of course.” Which everybody knew. Sid recalled what Andrew had said the night before about improvisations, and bit back a grin.

The rookie stayed on the ice with Sid, and with barely a word said, they started working on a passing maneuver which, if they could ever perfect it, would serve very well, Sid thought. They were careful not to overdo—it was a game day, after all—but Sid didn't think that ten minutes of keepaway would jeopardize anything.

As they entered the locker room, Sid wondered where today's little chat would take place: at his locker, or at the rookie's. He kind of hoped at his, since that meant he wouldn't have to initiate it.

“How's Ace liking his name?” the rookie asked. Which wasn't the opening Sid had expected, but he could work with it. Improvisation seemed to be the word for the day, after all.

“I'm pretty sure he likes it a lot,” Sid said honestly. “Maybe more than he'll ever admit out loud.”

The rookie laughed, and Sid thought he'd found his opening.

“And speaking of . . . can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“Why?”

The rookie didn't pretend to misunderstand. “Why'd I tell the guys yesterday?”

Sid nodded. And then reached for a towel to wipe the sweat out of his eyes.

The rookie did the same, and from the expression on his face, he was thinking carefully about what to say. Finally, he shrugged.

“I don't know if there's any one answer, Sid. I'll be honest: I never planned on doing it. No, that's not what I mean. I sure didn't plan on doing it now. If I ever did it, I guess I thought it would be at the end, not the beginning.” He barked out a laugh. “I got to tell you: I for sure hope those two times aren't a lot closer together today than they was yesterday.”

Sid nodded, because of course he did. “Anything can happen. But . . . I don't think you need to worry—at least, while you're on this team.” He fidgeted a little. “I talked to Mario yesterday. I . . . uh, mentioned to him what you said.”

“I kind of figured you would. Captain. And before you ask: I don't got a problem with that.”

Good. “He's willing to talk to you, if you want to talk to him. And you definitely should, if you want to.” He paused, gave the mental equivalent of a shrug, and then added, “I sure as fuck didn't want to. But I had to. Way, way at the beginning. And he didn't have any warning.” He grimaced. “It was probably the most awkward conversation of my life. And that's saying something.”

The rookie laughed, but he had a look of complete understanding on his face.

“And Mario? Mario was great. So don't worry about that. And I guess . . . I guess you don't have to worry about the guys either.”

Frowning a little, the rookie said, “You sound . . . I don't know, uncertain? Or surprised, maybe.”

“I think,” Sid said, after a minute, “that it's the second thing. Or maybe both. But . . . okay.” He sat down. “You know, like you said, I never really thought I'd tell the guys until later. But I did think about it. And in my mind, sometimes it went good, and other times it didn't. But I don't think I could ever have imagined it going as good as it did for you yesterday. I think everybody was surprised. I mean, I knew, and maybe Geno kind of knew, but nobody else did, that I know of.” And then something occurred to him. “Which means,” he said, thinking it through, “that you really didn't have to. I mean, _really_ didn't. So. . . .”

“Why?” The rookie's expression was . . . something. Ironic? Sardonic? Something like that. “Like I said, I didn't plan it. But . . . look, Sid. I hope I'm not talking out of turn here, but you've been the topic of a lot of conversations lately. And probably a lot more that I don't know about. I get the impression that only a couple of people knew you swung for other guys before this season. Maybe a few others had an idea, but weren't sure. But since you met Ace . . . let's just say that there was no doubt in anybody's mind anymore.”

Sid felt himself start turning red, and the rookie snorted.

“Oh, for fuck's sake, Sid! I hope you don't think you was being discreet! When Ace walks into the room, you look like Bettman just handed you the Cup.”

That was . . . pretty accurate, actually. Sid was sure his entire body was now scarlet.

“And Ace wasn't much better. A little, maybe. He can put on that cool removed act of his all he wants, but when he's in a room with you and a lot of people—like, in a bar?—he tracks you like you're a puck in play.”

He did? Just hearing that made Sid feel really, really good. And it probably showed on his face, because the rookie just shook his head and groaned.

“You two are so fucking gone on each other, it's almost disgusting. If I wasn't so jealous, I'd be sick.”

Sid stared at him. “Jealous?”

Rolling his eyes, the rookie asked, “Don't you get it, Sid? You and Ace . . . you're something special. Everybody can see it. Even _Nealer_ can see it. You found yourself a great guy. He _fits_ , Sid. He fits you, and he fits in. And I want that for myself.”

“But,” Sid kind of stammered, “you're . . . so young.”

“So what?” The rookie's voice was heated. “I'm too young to want to meet a great guy? I'm too young to want a fucking _partner_? I got news for you, Sid: maybe most guys my age are all about getting their fucking D wet, but that's not me. I'm not gonna turn down a hot fuck if it's safe, but I'm not interested in just getting laid. I want to have a life. A real life. I want to play hockey, and then I want to go home to somebody who looks at me the way Ace looks at you, like it's Christmas and he can't wait to open his presents. And as long as we're on the subject, I also want him to be able to hang around in the locker room and shoot the shit with the guys.” He stopped talking, and took a couple of deep breaths. “And the fucking irony of all of this is that I had no idea how much I wanted any of that, until I saw you and Ace together.”

There had been times—maybe a handful in his entire life—when Sid knew exactly what to say. This was not one of those times. But since he knew he had to say something, he decided to be honest.

“You're a lot smarter than I was at your age. And maybe more than I am now, actually.” The rookie made a dismissive noise, and Sid studied him.

“Remember that question I asked you the other day?”

“You mean the other reason why my play's gotten better?” When Sid nodded, the rookie said, “Yeah. And I come up with all sorts of reasons, but none of them seem right to me.” He cocked his head. “You gonna tell me what you think the reason is?”

“Sort of. I'm going to tell you that what I thought then is wrong.”

“Okay,” the rookie said slowly. “Any clues as to what you thought then?”

“I thought it was because you were more confident. I mean, you scored a goal in your, what? Third minute of ice time?”

“2:46,” the rookie said with a grin, and Sid had to laugh.

“So, yeah, I thought that was it.”

“But you don't think so anymore?”

Sid shrugged. “Confidence is probably part of it. But no: I don't think that was actually what I was picking up on; like I said, I was wrong. Which I started figuring out listening to Andrew talk about Caroline. And listening to you just now, I decided I know what it is. It's the fact that you're more comfortable. With the team, with me, and maybe most of all, with yourself. I think you kind of proved that, yesterday.”

The rookie opened his mouth, and then closed it without speaking. He was obviously thinking hard. Finally, he said, “That's a pretty fine distinction, Sid.”

“If a puck hits the pipe, it only takes a few degrees difference in the angle for it to be useful or garbage.”

“True enough.”

“Well, think about it some more. And let me know what you think. I'd be happy to talk about it some more.” Which was the truth. And it didn't even feel all that weird. Then Sid glanced at the clock. “I've got to get moving.”

“Okay. Thanks, Sid.”

“You're welcome, Tommy.”

**********

As they were walking towards their cars, Sid said abruptly, “Let me ask you a question.”

“Sure.”

“When did you figure out I was gay?”

“Oh, are you?” the rookie said, all innocence. “You've never said.”

Sid willed himself not to laugh. He wasn't entirely successful.

“Anyway: to answer your question. I _wondered_ that first night. When I went over to apologize to Andrew, you had murder all over your face. I _suspected_ after the Caps game. They've got to be boyfriends, I thought. I mean, why else would Geno and Flower sneak Andrew in, and make him a surprise? But I knew for sure after we played the Bruins, and were on the plane.”

“Why then?” Sid was genuinely curious.

“Are you really that clueless?” the rookie asked incredulously. “You stayed out all night.”

“So? I didn't tell anybody where I was. Well, I told Geno. But nobody else.”

“Sid. Sid, Sid, Sid. Do you remember what you did that entire plane ride?”

Sid thought. “I have no . . . oh, wait. I was figuring out how to use the music player.”

“That's right. You were figuring out how to use the music player. Which Andrew gave you. Which you blithely announced to everybody in earshot.”

“I did?”

“Yes, Sid, you did. So let's see. You stay out all night, and then you can't stop talking about your new toy, which Andrew gave you, sometime between playing the Bruins and leaving Boston. Nine of ten hours later.” He snorted. “Even hockey players can do that kind of math.”

“Really? Well, I think there's a problem with your addition.” Sid knew he was being stubborn, but still. “We were just friends then. Not that we're not friends now. But you know what I mean.”

“Sid. You asked _me_ when I knew. Not any of the others. My perspective is a little bit different.”

Oh. “This is true,” Sid admitted.

“You want to know when pretty much everybody figured it out?” Sid nodded, somewhat reluctantly. “In the bar that night with Andrew's parents. You kept prowling around, looking at the door. And when he came in . . . Sid, I swear it was like something out of an old movie. You just starting smiling. And then he saw you. And he, like, lit up. And he walked over and gave you a big hug, and you hugged him back, and then the both of you just looked at each other for a couple of seconds, and it was like you two were the only people on earth right then.” He stopped talking for a few seconds, shaking his head slightly. When he continued, his voice was different—a little softer. “It was one of the most romantic things I've ever seen.”

Sid thought that maybe he should be embarrassed. But he really, really wasn't. And he really, really didn't care. He just stood there for a minute, remembering. Finally, he said, “Well. Thanks for answering my question.”

“No problem.” The rookie hesitated, and then said, “Okay. One more thing. And maybe I shouldn't tell you this, but I will. When everybody was talking about giving Ace his name, a bunch of the guys starting arguing about who was gonna get to give him the whole 'They'll never find your body if you hurt Sid' speech.”

“Fuck,” Sid said eloquently. “Who won?”

“Nobody. Flower convinced everybody not to. No need, he said.”

Sid breathed a sigh of relief. He was about to say thank you, when he noticed the smirk on the rookie's face.

“What?”

“But you should be prepared. Geno and Flower are still arguing about who gets to give _you_ a speech.”

“Me? About what?”

“About how you're dead meat if you fuck this up.”

**********

When Sid got up, and had finished his post-nap, pre-game routine, he went downstairs and found Andrew in the kitchen, staring meditatively into space. In front of him were a couple of notepads, his laptop, and his phone.

“Hey,” Sid said.

After a second or two, Andrew's eyes came into focus. “Hey yourself, Sidney. Have a good nap?”

“I did. How was your day?”

“Okay, I guess. And yours?”

“Pretty good so far.” He'd decided on the way home from morning skate not to mention his conversation with the rookie until he'd had time to think about it a little more; he didn't actually know why that felt like the right thing to do, but it did. Gesturing towards the paraphernalia in front of Andrew, he said, “You in the middle of something?”

“Various schemes and plots. Am I in your way here?”

Sid shook his head. “Not at all. I'll be heading out soon.”

Glancing at the clock, Andrew said, “Me too.”

“Need a lift?” Sid asked, after considering his schedule. He should have just enough time. But Andrew shook his head.

“I've got the car. Samuel's using the bathroom; I hope that's okay.” After Sid made an “of course” gesture, Andrew went on, “I had some free time, so I thought I'd come back here and work a little. And say hello, of course. And wish you a good game.”

“Thanks. I wish you were going to be there.”

Andrew grinned. “Well, I somehow think that my not showing up at the opera house would cause a few heart attacks. Although my cover would probably rejoice. I'll be at the game in spirit; how about that?”

Sid sighed. “I guess that will have to do.”

Andrew rolled his eyes. “Martyrdom does not become you, Sidney.”

“Sure it does,” Sid said brightly, making Andrew laugh. Nodding at the table, he asked, “What are you working on?”

“Oh, that scheduling database. I think I've reached the limits of what I can do with it, programming-wise. I'll have to ask Dad for some advice—or one of his developers, maybe.”

“I thought they all ran away and hid when you walked in the door,” Sid remarked, going to get a couple bottles of water.

Andrew's eyebrows shot up—and for a minute he looked insulted. And then comprehension spread over his face, and he laughed. “When did Mom tell you that?”

“When they were here,” Sid said, tossing one of the bottles to Andrew. “She seemed very proud of that fact. Must be the Russian in her.”

“I suppose it is. Speaking of Russians: I need to talk to Evgeni—in person, preferably. Are you guys going out after the game?”

“Probably. Should I text you the details?”

“Please.”

“Can I ask what you want to talk to him about?”

“You can ask—obviously, since you just did.” Sid made a face, which Andrew ignored. “But I'm not going to tell you just yet.”

“Why not?”

“Because I'm working on a plan, and its success is far from certain. If it works, it has the potential to be a good thing for both of us, so I don't want to get your hopes up yet.”

Sid considered this, and then nodded. “Fair enough. But you should give me a hint.”

“I should? Why?”

“Because I'm your favorite hockey player.”

“Yes, you are. Let's see.” Andrew pretended to think. “Nope. Not a good enough reason.”

Sid tried again. “You're my favorite opera singer?”

“Sidney, if you can name one other male opera singer right now, I will tell you what you want to know.”

Sid sulked. Then, when what he hoped was a covert glance at Andrew revealed him to be unmoved, he gave up.

“Fine. Keep your secrets.”

“I will. But thank you for the permission.”

Just then, Samuel poked his head in. “I'm ready whenever you are, Mr. Copley. Oh hi, Mr. Crosby.”

“Hi, Samuel.”

Andrew consolidated his stuff into a single pile. “I'm ready now.”

“Should I take this out to the car?”

“No thanks, Samuel; I won't need it at the opera house. I'll just be a minute.” Samuel nodded, and left the room.

Andrew turned to Sid. “Do I get a hug?”

Sid pretended to think about it. For all of two seconds. “Sure. A big hug.” He opened his arms, and Andrew stepped into them.

“Ummm.” Andrew kissed him lightly, and then rubbed their noses together. “Play well tonight, Sidney.”

“I'll do my best. I hope you get another standing O.”

Andrew made a face. “If I do, I hope I deserve it.”

“You will,” Sid said with conviction. “See you later.” One last kiss, and Andrew strode out. And Sid was alone.

Sid stood there for a minute, thinking, as he finished his water, that silence was much more than the absence of noise. Then he shrugged, banished philosophy from his brain, and got ready to head to Consol.

**********

They lost that night and nobody was happy, least of all Sid, but even he had to admit that there was nothing specific he could think of that they'd done wrong. Which made talking to the press even more frustrating than usual, which was saying something.

Still, there had been a couple of good things. Coach had put the rookie on Sid's line, and he got an assist on Sid's goal in the second. And, almost equally important, Sid had been able to detect absolutely nothing different about how the rookie had been treated in the locker room or on the ice—and he'd been watching.

The split between those who wanted to go out and those who just wanted to go home was almost equal. Sid didn't think it was a morale night, but when someone asked for his opinion, he shrugged, and said that he wouldn't mind going out for a drink.

“Or we could go to my place,” he offered. And endured the usual chirps about his lack of talent at video games, so it was kind of a relief when everybody chose the going out option. And when Andrew got there, Sid positively beamed at the number of greetings masquerading as chirps he got. Or maybe it was chirps masquerading as greetings; it was kind of hard to tell.

Sid had assumed Andrew would go over to Geno right away, but instead, he spent a little while asking general questions about the game, and his attentiveness, as well as his matter-of-fact attitude, hit exactly the right notes. Which made Sid giggle to himself when he thought that, because of course.

Another surprise was the interchange he then had with Flower.

“Sidney told me that your wife . . . Véronique, right? . . . wanted to see the opera.” Andrew waited for Flower's nod to continue. “Well, if she still does,” and he reached into his pocket and took out an envelope, “here's a couple of tickets. If she's changed her mind, though, it's not a problem; just let me know.”

Flower tried to thank him, but Andrew brushed him off. “It's nothing, truly.” Sid thought he looked a little embarrassed, and, not for the first time, he found that really kind of . . . endearing.

Finally, after he'd finished his first drink, Andrew turned to Geno.

“Zhenya. I have two favors to ask of you.”

“Okay.” Geno looked at Andrew expectantly.

“The thing is . . . I only want you to agree to one of them.”

Geno looked confused, and Sid felt that way too.

“No, seriously. I'm going to ask you to do something for me, and I want you to say no. Then I'm going to ask you for something, and I want you to give it to me.”

“Okay. But if I can do first thing, I happy. . . .”

Andrew interrupted him. “No, Zhenya. This won't work if you say yes. Trust me.”

Geno shrugged. “Okay. No.”

Rolling his eyes, Andrew said, “At least wait until I've asked it.” He cleared his throat. “I'm thinking of putting together a small concert, including a bunch of Russian folk songs, for people like you—expatriate hockey players, who don't get home much. Could you help me organize it?”

Geno's face, which had lit up during the first sentence, looked totally conflicted when he heard the question. He opened his mouth, and then said, extremely reluctantly, “No?”

“Wonderful. Thanks so much, Zhenya. That'll be a big help.” Andrew picked up his replenished drink, and saluted Nealer, who had bought it, before taking a swallow.

“I confused. Why that a help? And why not I'm help you?” Geno's more than usually mangled English indicated some strong feeling.

“Because you'll be more of a help by not helping. That way, anyway.”

Geno shook his head, and Sid didn't blame him. “You explain,” Geno said peremptorily.

“Of course.” And Andrew proceeded to do so. At length. In Russian. Sid recognized only a couple of words: his name, Mario's name, and. . . .

“Ovechkin?” he said incredulously. But both of the others ignored him, Andrew still explaining, and Geno trying to hold in his laughter. At least at first.

When Andrew ran down, Geno asked him a question. In English, at least, so a still-fulminating Sid could understand.

“You not think of this youself. Who help you?”

Slightly affronted, Andrew said, “I did, as a matter of fact, think of this myself. However, since I want it to work, I intend to rely heavily on the skills of an expert: my mother.”

Geno nodded sagely. “Thought you were smart. Okay.” And he took out his phone. And proceeded to give Andrew Ovechkin's cell phone number and address. Which Andrew entered in his own phone. And then, seemingly finished, he sat back and lifted his glass again.

“Are you ready to explain this to me now?” Sid asked frostily.

“Explain what, Sidney?”

“All of . . . this!” Sid gestured between Andrew and Geno. “What are you planning that involves Ovechkin?” Donning his most Canadian look of disapproval, he said, “And don't you think it was really rude, speaking in Russian right in front of me?”

“To answer your questions in order,” Andrew said pleasantly, “on a 'need to know' basis, I don't think you need to know. And no, not at all. Wasn't it only yesterday that you said, quite gleefully, that you could ignore me, no matter what language I was speaking?”

Sid spluttered.

Andrew slowly smiled—a very self-satisfied smile—and then turned to talk to Nealer.

Glumly picking up his beer, Sid tried not to pay attention to Geno's mirth. He also tried not to sulk. He was slightly more successful at one of those things.

**********

The next time Sid checked his phone, there was a text from Andrew. “ _Plausible deniability”_ was all it said.

Sid considered. Then he responded: “ _Enrico Caruso_.”

He watched Andrew look at his phone. He started laughing, and then looked directly at Sid. And smiled. Warmly. And Sid smiled back.

Andrew then typed something. When Sid's phone buzzed, he saw: “ _Let's blow this popsicle stand_.”

Sid thought back to grammar school. And then he typed, “ _I like ur verb._ ”

**********

As they left the bar, Andrew remarked, “I told Henry he could clock out, so I hope you're good to drive.”

“I'm fine. But Sid's taxi service comes at a price.”

“Oh, really?” Andrew arched an eyebrow. “And what might that be?”

“I want my hint. I named another male opera singer.”

“If I'm not mistaken, there was a time limit on that deal. Do the words 'right now' ring a bell?”

“The only thing that rings my bell these days is you,” Sid said breezily, bumping shoulders.

Andrew started choking. At first, Sid thought he was being chirped, but it quickly became obvious that Andrew was really gasping for breath.

“Sasha! Are you all right?”

Andrew nodded his head, and held up his hand in the 'give me a minute' gesture, as he hacked a few more times.

“What the fuck happened?”

“Oh my God,” Andrew rasped. “I couldn't decide if I wanted to laugh or gag. So I did both at the same time.” He coughed again. “I don't recommend it.” He cleared his throat and looked around. “Sidney, I'm going to do something disgusting. Don't watch.” And he walked over to the gutter and spat copiously a couple of times. He straightened up, pulled out his handkerchief, and wiped his mouth.

“Jesus Christ; I'll definitely have to gargle when we get back to your place. Good thing I'm not singing tomorrow.”

Sid's first thought was that he hoped Andrew could still sing him to sleep. His second thought was that he should be ashamed of himself.

He shut the car door with more force than was necessary.

“You much be starving,” he said, a bit abruptly. “Do you want to get something to eat?”

“Well, yes. But I'd rather not go out. Did you finish all of the leftover chicken for lunch?”

“I didn't.”

“Then let's just go home.”

Sid didn't move. He just felt.

After a few seconds, Andrew said, “Sidney? Are you okay?”

It was Sid's turn to clear his throat. “Yeah. I'm fine. More than fine, actually.”

“Okay.” Andrew dragged the word out, inviting an explanation.

“You called my house 'home.'” Sid could feel his eyes fill up. “That felt . . . really, really good.” He cleared his throat again.

Andrew's voice was soft. “I'm glad. In case I haven't mentioned it, I really, really like being with you. Even in your Fortress of Solitude.”

Sid reached over and roughly pulled Andrew into a hug. He felt an almost desperate need to feel physically connected to him.

“Oh fuck, Sasha,” he whispered, and there was no hiding the fact that he was crying. Andrew held him, and rocked him a little.

Finally, reluctantly, Sid pulled back a little and said thickly, “Can I use your handkerchief?”

“Sure.”

When Sid was done blowing his nose, he looked over, and saw Andrew smiling at him.

“Feeling better?”

“A little.” And that was the truth, Sid realized.

“Good.”

Sid went to start the car, and then dropped his borrowed handkerchief in the cup holder—where it joined an identical one. He looked over bemusedly.

“You carry _two_ handkerchiefs?”

“I'm an opera singer, Sidney. You never know when you're going to need to mop up tears. Or blood.” He paused, and then added, “Actually, in opera, it's more likely to be blood.”

“Your mom was right. Opera and hockey have a lot in common.”

**********

After Andrew had cleared his plate—twice—he asked Sid, “Do you want your hint now?”

Sid had been thinking about that.

“I'd love to know what you're planning. But if you think I need plausible deniability, then I'll trust your judgment.”

“I just don't want you to be disappointed if nothing comes of it. And it's entirely possible nothing will. Anyway, it's not really a big thing.”

“If Ovechkin is involved, it is a big thing. Or it will be; he'll make sure of that.”

“I don't really see how. But perhaps you're right.”

“I guess we'll find out. But I do want to know one thing. Is what you're planning related to our . . . uh, scheduling problems?”

“It certainly is.” Andrew sounded—and looked—quite definite.

“Then good luck.”

“Why, thank you, _mon oie_.”

“And if there's anything I can do to help, just let me know.”

Andrew stood up. “I can think of several things I'd like your help with.” His voice . . . invited. “The dishes . . . will wait, I think.”

“I think you're right.”

**********

When Sid did the dishes the next morning, he was whistling.

**********

As they were leaving the house to go to Mario's, Sid noticed Andrew was holding a bottle of wine.

“Why are you bringing that?”

“It's a guest gift.”

“Andrew. I lived with them for years. It's not necessary.”

“Sidney. _I_ didn't live with them for years. It _is_ necessary.” Andrew gave the bottle a critical look. “I hope this is decent. I tried to find a bottle of that stuff Nathalie liked—you know, from my concert? The bottle I stole from Mom and Dad? But the two places I went to didn't have it. I wish I knew more about red wine.”

“I'm sure it's fine.” Sid gave it a cursory glance. “I've never heard of it. Not that that's surprising. It looks pretty fancy; how much did it cost?”

“I don't remember exactly; I think around $90.”

Sid's jaw dropped. “$90? For one bottle?”

Andrew rolled his eyes. “Yes, Sidney. For one bottle. What, you think we should bring Mario and Nathalie, who are essentially your foster parents, a bottle of Ripple?”

Well, no. Still. . . .

“I hope the stuff you buy for us to drink doesn't cost that much.”

“Believe me, it doesn't. If it makes you feel any better, I called Mom from the second wine store and asked for recommendations. Her first suggestion cost three times as much as this one.” He snorted. “ _She_ told me I was being cheap.”

Sid just shook his head. “Sasha, I'm going to give you one piece of advice. Don't try to tell Mario or Nathalie that the wine is from both of us. They won't believe it for a second.”

And they didn't. But they did like the wine.

**********

“Did you have a good time tonight?” Sid asked, as they were driving home.

“I did. Nathalie is a fantastic cook.”

“She is,” Sid agreed. “I've always loved that lamb thing she made.” He glanced over at Andrew. “I'm kind of surprised you ate it.”

“Why?”

“Uh, red meat?”

Andrew waved him off. “Sidney. Just because I limit the amount of red meat I eat, doesn't mean I don't like it. It's not as if I'm allergic. Besides: we were guests in somebody's house. Do you really think I'm crass enough to offend our hosts by refusing the main course?”

“I don't think you're crass at all.” He looked over again. “Being a good guest is important to you, isn't it?”

“It is. Almost as important as being a good host. Which the Lemieuxs certainly are. To a fault, almost; if that was Nathalie's idea of a small piece of cheesecake, I'd hate to see a large piece. Oh, wait: I did. On your plate. For about a minute, anyway.”

“If Nathalie went to all the trouble of serving my favorite dessert, I certainly wouldn't want to insult her by being unenthusiastic.”

After a moment, Andrew said, “That was very good, Sidney. The words, anyway. However, I'm sure I don't smirk like that.”

“Really?” At that moment, Sid would have paid a great deal of money to be able to raise an eyebrow.

Andrew started to laugh. But it wasn't his normal laugh: this one sounded . . . a little evil. “Just so you know, Sidney: when we get home, I'm going to chase you upstairs. And then I'm going to tickle you until you scream for mercy.”

“You'll have to catch me first.”

**********

Sid learned two things that night. It was fun being caught. And sometimes rules were made to be broken. Well, bent. A little.

**********

Over tea and coffee the next morning, Sid asked, “Pizza or Italian food?”

It took Andrew a minute.

“I don't know if I have a strong preference. If we were in Boston, I'd say definitely pizza, because I know where to get the good stuff. But here? I'd say, whichever you think is better.”

“Okay. Let me think about it. One more question.”

“All right.”

“Just us, or can I invite the guys?”

“Isn't that two questions?”

“Andrew.”

“Okay, fine. Let me think a second.” He got up and refilled their cups.

“I'm not trying to hedge here, but honestly? It depends on when we do this.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean . . . I'm currently booked on a flight late Sunday morning. If I plan on leaving on that flight and we go out Saturday night after my last performance, then just us. Definitely just us. However, even though I absolutely have to be home by mid-afternoon on Monday, there's a flight out early Monday morning that still has a lot of seats. Or it did yesterday, at any rate. If I switch to that flight—and I have absolutely no problems doing so—then we could do something with the guys on Sunday. It's a matinee game, right?”

Sid nodded.

Andrew reached across the table and took Sid's hands in his own. “Sidney. I want very much to spend a few hours alone with you before I leave. But I also would like to spend time with the guys. So why don't you think about the logistics, and let me know if I should change my flight. Okay?”

Sid squeezed Andrew's hands.

“I actually don't have to think about it. At all. Obviously, I want you here as long as possible. So: if you honestly don't mind, then switch your ticket. You and I will do something Saturday night; I'll get you a ticket for Sunday's game, and then we'll all go out after that. We'll spend the night here, and I'll take you to the airport on Monday. Sound good?”

“It sounds perfect. Except: don't you have practice on Monday?”

“It'll probably be optional. And if not, I can go a little late. I'll talk to Coach today.”

“All right. But Samuel could always drive me.” He paused, and then said, quite seriously, “That might actually be better. I probably won't cry that way.”

“But I probably will.” And Sid was equally serious.

Andrew leaned across the table and gave Sid a kiss. “Well, we'll figure that out later. As my _babushka_ used to say, 'don't trouble trouble, 'til trouble troubles you.'”

“That would be your Mom's mother?” Sid scratched his head. “I don't think that sounds very Russian. All the Russians I know look for trouble long before it can get around to troubling anybody.”

Andrew laughed. “Well, Svetlana was, first and foremost, a survivor. Another thing she used to say: 'don't meet your enemy head-on; kick him in the balls first.'”

Sid had to laugh. “She sounds even scarier than your Mom.”

“Tell me about it.”

Sid pushed his chair back. “I need to fix my shake and get going.”

Andrew stood up too. “And I should try and change my ticket. Where'd I leave my laptop? I thought it was in here.”

“I don't think it's upstairs. Try the media room. Or your music room.”

“Okay.” Andrew walked out, and Sid went into action. He picked up Andrew's phone, accessed the contacts (which was a lot easier to do on Andrew's phone than on his own), and had just enough time to scribble down Daniel's number and turn the phone off again before Andrew came back.

Sid had a plan.

**********

When Sid got downstairs after his nap, he found a fulminating Andrew pacing in the kitchen. Talking on his phone.

“No, I completely understand it's beyond your control. But the problem is: I won't be here next week to arrange the pick-up. I'm going to have to coordinate this with somebody else's schedule.” He listened. “Okay. Let me find a good time for him and I'll call you back. Thanks a lot.”

He ended the call and said, “Shit.”

“What's wrong?”

“It's the piano. They can't pick it up today; the driver's wife is in labor.” He gave his phone a disparaging look. “Of course, if they'd let me know this earlier, I might have been able to . . . I don't know, arrange something. Somehow.”

“Sasha. As strong as you are, I don't think you could carry the piano yourself. And I don't think it would fit in the car.”

“I suppose not. Oh Sidney, I'm sorry.”

“About what? Somebody else's labor pains?”

That earned him a withering glance.

“About the piano. Now you're going to have to deal with the pick-up, and it'll be a huge inconvenience. I should never have rented the damn thing in the first place.”

“For fuck's sake, Sasha: don't worry about it. It's not that big a deal. I can handle it.”

“Well, you shouldn't have to. But thanks.” He gave Sid a hug. “I'll make it up to you. Somehow.”

“Look on the bright side. Since the piano's still here, you can give me another private concert.”

“This is true. I don't know why I didn't think of that myself.” He pinched Sid's ass, and Sid yelped.

“Hey! What's that for?”

“Just for being you, _mon oie_. Although I also just remembered: you haven't paid me for your first private concert yet.”

“I'm good for it. Actually, though, I should find my checkbook.”

“Why?”

“I must owe you a ton of money. All the stuff you got for the kitchen.”

Andrew actually recoiled. “Don't be insulting, Sidney.”

“Insulting? I'm not being insulting, I'm being serious.”

“You're seriously pissing me off.”

Sid stared. Andrew did look totally steamed.

“I don't mean to. But why should you pay for all of that?”

“Because I want to.”

Sid shook his head, but before he could say anything, Andrew did.

“Sidney. Remember how you said it made you happy to think of my being here during your road trip?”

Slowly, Sid nodded.

“Well, after I leave, it'll make me happy to think of these things being here in this kitchen. I wanted those things, and I bought them, and I used them, and I had a great time doing so, and I hope to use them a lot in the future, and have even more great times doing so. With you. So please: shut the fuck up about paying me.”

Sid reached out, pulled Andrew to him roughly, and hugged him. He didn't say anything, because he was sure that if he opened his mouth right then, he'd start to cry; his eyes were already filling up. So he just stood there, breathing in Andrew's scent, and enjoying his warmth. And Andrew didn't say anything either—at least, in words. But Sid thought the way his body melded to his own said quite a bit on its own.

 


	14. Chapter 14

On Sunday afternoon, Sid was trying to achieve his pre-game state of mind, which wasn't easy, since he was checking his phone every twelve minutes. Finally, _finally_ , there was a text—no, three texts—from Andrew.

 

 

> _Stronzo!_
> 
>  
> 
> _What a wonderful surprise!_
> 
>  
> 
> _Play well, mon oie_.

 

Sid sighed in relief. And then he wrote back,

 

> _If I get any pts theyre 4 U_.

 

He was grinning as he put his phone away.

“Sid okay?” asked Geno.

“Sid is very okay,” he replied. Still grinning, he turned to the room at large.

“Hey, guys.”

Everybody stopped what they were doing. Sid looked at all of them, going from left to right. Then he said simply, “We've got this.”

The room erupted, as everybody repeated Sid's words.

And all of them were right.

**********

“So where exactly are we going?” Andrew asked.

Trying to hide his grin, Sid monotoned, “Out for pizza.”

“I _know_ that, Sidney. But where?”

“I don't actually know the name of the place. But I have it on good authority that you'll like it.”

“And whose authority is that?”

“Your dad's. I called him to ask what your favorite pizza places were.”

“So that's it! Neither he nor Mom would say a word about how they 'just happened' to be in town.” Andrew was practically bouncing in his seat. “I couldn't believe it when they sat down!”

“Well, your dad said he hadn't had good pizza in a while.” He leaned forward. “I think it's down there.”

Andrew looked around. “There's definitely a ton of cars. You should probably park here; I don't see anything up ahead.”

Inhaling appreciatively as they walked down the street, Andrew said, “God, it certainly smells good. But . . . is the place even open?”

There was a sign on the door that said “Closed,” but when they got closer, they saw another sign that said, “for private party.”

Andrew turned to Sidney, his face alight with disbelief. “Sidney, you rented the entire restaurant?”

Sid smiled enigmatically—or at least, he hoped so. Since he had no idea.

“Is there a password, or do we have to give a special handshake to get in?”

“I think we just have to knock.” And Sid did.

The door was opened by somebody Sid had never seen before.

“Simon?” Andrew said incredulously.

“In the flesh.”

“What are you doing in Pittsburgh?”

“Getting ready to eat some pizza—now that you two are finally here.” He ushered them in to a little vestibule, and then locked the door. “You must be Sidney,” he said, holding out his hand.

“I am. It's nice to meet you in person.”

“Likewise. To say I've heard a lot about you is an understatement; Daniel has talked about nothing but hockey ever since he saw your game. In his office, it's YouTube Hockey, Crosby edition, 24/7.”

Sid felt himself start to beam. Andrew and Simon rolled their eyes in unison.

“Anyway: let's go in. You're the last to arrive, and the natives are restless.” He started to turn, and then said, “Oh, and the whole staff signed an NDA and agreed to no pictures without your permission. But you might want to let them take a few; they've all been incredible.”

With that, he went through the swinging doors.

Andrew turned to Sid. “Sidney, I'm almost afraid to ask, but what's waiting for us in there?”

“I have no idea,” Sid said honestly. “Your dad asked why I wanted to know what kind of pizza you liked, so I told him I was going to try and find something like it here in Pittsburgh. He put Simon on the phone . . . and, uh, I'm not exactly sure what happened after that, but . . . um, here we are.”

Andrew laughed. “Simon has a lot in common with Mom. Well. To quote a movie that I know your sister likes: 'in case I forget to tell you later, I had a great time tonight.'” He leaned over and gave Sid a quick kiss, and then they walked into the restaurant.

**********

Inside, they found . . . well, pretty much every table or booth was filled. With the guys, their wives or girlfriends, and, Sid was happy to see, their kids. And Mario and Nathalie were there too, with their kids. Except for a couple of girlfriends, he recognized pretty much everybody in the place; there were even some of the people from the front office. A bunch of people called out a greeting to him; Sid started to smile widely—and then he got distracted. By a noise.

He turned—and his smile turned into a grin. “Look, Sasha—we can go bowling!”

“We can.” Andrew was grinning too. “But not until after we eat.” He sniffed the air, and closed his eyes. “And if I can still move. It smells _wonderful_!”

Sid snickered. “You've got your O face on. Or should I say, your standing O face?”

Andrew started to laugh, but then they were both distracted by another noise. By a very high-pitched . . . well, Sid supposed squeal was the right word; it was much too loud to be a squeak. And then Caroline flung herself at Andrew, and started talking very, very quickly, with her voice going higher and higher.

Sid couldn't understand a word she was saying, and she even seemed to be speaking English.

“She sounds like Minnie Mouse,” he muttered. And then, when a woman next to him started to laugh, he flushed a little. Especially since he had no idea who she was.

“You're so right, she does. You must be Sid. I'm Gwen, Caro's girlfriend.”

“Uh, hi.” He jerked his head. “What's . . . going on? With her, I mean.”

“Apparently Andrew's been dropping her name in _very_ high places.”

Really? Sid took another look. Caroline seemed to still be going strong, and Andrew was beginning to look a little hunted.

“We should probably rescue him,” he said, a little hesitantly, since he had no idea how to do that. Short of dragging Caroline away.

“I agree. The trick is to get her attention. Keep standing there.” So Sid did. And was a little mystified when Gwen walked away. After about ten steps, though she turned around, took a deep breath, threw her head back, and screamed. Very, very loudly.

Everybody else in the place stopped talking, whipped their heads around and stared. So they all had a good view as Gwen ran back and jumped on top of Sid. He managed to catch her—she didn't weigh all that much—but he really wondered what was going on.

“Oh, Sidney, Sidney, Sidney!” she exclaimed, at the top of her lungs. “I'm so excited to see you! Oh, I could just climb you like a tree!” And she dragged out the last word, in a really bad parody of opera singing. And then she looked expectantly at Sid—and her facial expression was so exaggerated, and reminded Sid of Taylor at her most ridiculous, that he couldn't help but play along.

“Feel free,” he said, grinning. From the corner of his eye, he saw that Andrew was, kind of unsuccessfully, trying not to laugh. Caroline, on the other hand, seemed . . . bewildered. As did some of the guys who were staring at them.

“Oh, Sidney!” Gwen sort of trilled, as she jumped off him. “You're so, so kind! I think I'm going to cry!” And she batted her eyelashes at him. And then Sid had an inspiration. He reached over to the table next to them, and picked up a napkin.

“Allow me to give you one of the seventeen handkerchiefs I never leave home without.” He could hear Andrew make a choked kind of noise, so he added, “Especially when I know I'm going to see you!”

“Oh, Sidney! I'll be able to add it to my collection!” And she sighed. Really, really, loudly. And very theatrically. Sid could hear snickers—he even recognized Flower's. “I'll try not to vomit on this one!” Nealer and the rookie started to guffaw. In unison.

Sid waved his hand grandly in dismissal. “What's a little vomit?”

“Oh, Sidney!” Gwen clutched her heart. “I swear, if you had a uterus, I'd marry you!”

More and more people had started to laugh, and when Sid confided, in his best on-the-ice voice, “If I had a uterus, I'd let you!” everybody pretty much lost it. Even Caroline.

“Okay, fine!” she said, laughing. “I'll try to tone it down.”

“Try really hard,” Gwen advised—which made people laugh again.

Andrew grabbed Sid's arm and pulled him towards the bar. He was still laughing a little.

“Christ, I need a drink. Sidney, you were wonderful! I apologize for ever telling you that your acting is terrible.”

“Really?” Sid felt a swell of pride, even as he waited for the chirp he knew had to be coming.

“Really. You made a most excellent tree. What kind were you, anyway? An oak?”

Sid repaid this sally with the most supercilious sneer he could summon on short notice. “Maple, of course. As anybody with sense could plainly tell.”

Andrew threw his head back and roared, and Sid ignored him to say hello to Elisabeth. Who startled him by standing on her toes and kissing both of his cheeks.

“It's so good to see you again, Sidney. Thank you for inviting us.”

“It's good to see you too,” Sid said, meaning it. “Uh, thanks for coming. All this way. For a pizza.”

“Not just for a pizza,” Elisabeth reminded him, putting her arm through his, and leading him the rest of the way towards the bar. “We got to see your game too. Congratulations on the win.”

“Yes, congratulations, Sidney!” Daniel said, appearing seemingly out of nowhere. “Today's game was even more exciting than the last one!” He hugged Sid, and Sid returned the gesture, not even feeling the faintest tinge of awkwardness.

“I'm glad you both liked it,” he said sincerely, accepting a beer from Elisabeth.

“Oh, we did, we did,” Daniel said, and then turned to greet his son. With his usual hug and kiss on the cheek. When he finished that, though, he said, “Oh, Sasha! Guess what!”

“What, Dad?”

In absolutely ecstatic tones: “They have karaoke here!”

Sid couldn't help it; he started honking.

He just knew it was going to be a wonderful night.

**********

A while later—Sid had kind of lost track of time—he was heading towards the men's room when he nearly bumped into Simon, clearly going the same way. Sid politely held the door for him, and they walked over to the two urinals.

He had a couple of things he wanted to say to Simon, and he'd long ago lost any inhibitions he might have had about having bathroom conversations, but he still hesitated a bit, remembering that Simon was a civilian, and maybe he should wait. Simon, however, solved the problem by speaking first.

“Having a good time, Sidney?”

“A great time,” Sid said honestly. “I can't thank you enough for all you've done.”

Simon made a dismissive noise, but Sid said, “No, I'm serious. I meant that literally. This has been so great. And you arranged it all in what? Two days? Less, actually. It never would have occurred to me that we could rent out the whole place. The guys are having a wonderful time with their families, and Sasha loves the pizza.”

And he certainly did; Sid could have sworn he'd inhaled his first piece. Before marching over to the kitchen, walking right in, and coming out a minute later talking in Italian at warp speed to a guy old enough to be his grandfather—who was beaming when Andrew finally ran out of compliments.

He glanced over, and saw that Simon was looking at him a little funny.

“What?” he asked self-consciously, checking quickly to make sure he wasn't dribbling on himself.

“Sasha, huh?”

A little defensively, Sid said, “He gave me permission. To call him that, I mean.”

Simon's lips twitched. “I figured as much. Since you have no obviously broken bones. You do know that you're a member of an extremely select group, don't you? So select that you're the only person in it?”

“I do know that.” Sid couldn't have stopped the proud smile that practically split his face in two if he tried—and he didn't.

Simon rolled his eyes, but he didn't do it as . . . expressively as Andrew did. “Well. I'd welcome you to the family, but I think we should put our dicks away first.”

Sid blushed a little, and Simon started laughing. “Oh, you are something special, aren't you?” He went to wash his hands, and Sid tried to compose himself before doing the same.

Simon finished first at the air dryer, and put his hand out when Sid was through.

“Welcome to the craziness that is the Singleton-Copley ménage. I can promise you you'll never be the same again. Whether that's a good thing or not, is up to you to decide.”

“It's been really good so far,” Sid said honestly.

Simon eyed him appraisingly, and then nodded. “Daniel said that I'd like you . . . and I do. So, having said that. . . .” He took out his phone and started tapping keys. “Let me send you my work phone number, my e-mail address, and my cell phone number, all in one place for convenience. If you ever need anything—and I do mean anything, from travel arrangements to advice—let me know.”

“Thanks a lot,” Sid said, and then hesitated. “Do you want my e-mail address? And . . . could you let me know if there's anything you think I should know?”

Simon smirked. “I'd be happy to. But you don't have to give me anything—I already have all of your information.”

Sid stared at him. “You do?”

“Of course I do.” And then Simon shook his head. “Oh, Sidney. Or . . . hold on: do you prefer Sid or Sidney? I thought Sidney, since that's what Daniel calls you, but everybody else out there's been calling you Sid.”

“Either is fine. But how. . . ?”

“Persistent, aren't you? Okay, I'll answer your question. I got all your info from Daniel. Now let me ask you something. How did you get Daniel's number?”

“Uh,” and Sid started to blush again, “I stole it off of Andrew's phone.”

“Exactly.” And Simon waited.

Sid started to laugh.

“Did he really?”

“Cross my heart. He admitted it openly. He has a whole whiteboard of questions about hockey he wants to ask you; so far, Elisabeth and I have been able to rein him in, but be warned. And in all honesty, Daniel could probably hack into Sasha's phone while taking a bath. There's a reason why he was awarded his first patent in prep school, after all. Now come on; let's get out of this bathroom. I need to pick your brains.

“About what?” Sid asked, following him out the door.

“Just watching you and Sasha has put me in a very sentimental mood. Which I need to get out of my system immediately by having lots of very athletic sex. And there's somebody on your team who strikes me as the perfect candidate.”

“As far as I know, there's only one other gay guy on the team—Tommy,” Sid said, nodding with his head. “And frankly, I think he's a little young for you.”

“He certainly is. But he isn't who I had in mind. Him, over there. With the highly problematic hair.”

Sid's jaw dropped. “You mean _Nealer_?”

“If he kneels, all the better. But it's not a requirement.”

Sid burst out laughing. Which of course drew attention. And like magic, Nealer walked over.

“What's so funny, Sid?”

Sid still couldn't speak, so Simon did it for him.

“I was just asking Sid who the fun guys on the team were, and your name came up.”

Nealer's face lit up. “Really?” Then, suspiciously, “So why is he laughing?”

“I have no idea. But it might be catching. Come on: let me get you a drink at this wonderful open bar.” And he led Nealer away.

Sid had barely recovered when the Lemieux kids ran over. “Sid, come on. It's your turn to bowl.”

So Sid dutifully followed them over to the lanes, still chuckling.

He came in last, but he couldn't even muster up the wherewithal to care.

**********

Sid was considering another drink when Andrew sank down next to him.

“Hey,” Sid smiled. “Having a good time?”

“At the risk of sounding like Evgeni: the best.”

“Where is Geno, anyway?” Sid supposed he could look around, but he was feeling lazy.

“He's over there talking to Mom and Dad. Or he was until about a minute ago; Mario's talking to them now.” Andrew stretched. “I'm thinking I want another drink. Care to join me?”

“Sure. But I'll get them.”

“Nah. You worked today. Be right back.”

Sid surveyed the room. Most of the guys with little kids had either left, or were getting ready to. He saw Nathalie herding her kids together, so he pushed himself up to go say goodbye. It took him a while to cross the room, since a bunch of people stopped him to say good night, or to tell him that they'd had a good time. It was nice, Sid thought, and he made a mental note to thank Simon again for arranging everything. Or maybe he should do more than thank him; he'd have to ask Andrew what he thought.

Flower hailed him.

“Sid, the guys all chipped in for the servers. Here,” and he thrust a bowl of money at him.

“Why don't you just give it to them yourself?” Sid was definitely feeling lazy.

“You're the host.”

Sid considered arguing, but decided it wasn't worth the effort. “Okay, fine. You enjoy yourself, Flower?”

“ _Ouais_. This was a lot of fun. And the pizza was great. We'll have to come back.”

“For sure.”

“Well, once I say goodbye to Ace, we're out of here. See you tomorrow, Sid.”

“Night, Flower.”

Sid stood there holding the bowl until Andrew joined him a couple of minutes later.

“What's that? Oh, for the wait staff? Good idea; I always think it's better to tip in cash.” And Andrew reached for his wallet.

“You don't have to. . . .” Sid didn't even bother to finish the sentence.

“Sidney, stuff it. I ate, didn't I?”

“Quite a bit, actually.”

“You betcha,” Andrew said cheerfully. “What's the point of bingeing if you don't binge? Plus, I already ordered one for us to take back home: a little extra crispy around the edges. The breakfast of champions.” He threw a couple of bills in the bowl; the one on top was a fifty. “Let me bring this over to Mom and Dad.”

“Andrew, no. I don't want your parents to have to pay for anything.”

“I know that. But they'll _want_ to. Come on, we'll both go. You'll see.”

And sure enough. And then Simon came over and took out his wallet, and Sid had had enough.

“No,” he said. Firmly, but politely. “You have done more than anybody else to make this whole thing happen; I won't let you pay for it too.” Simon attempted to stare him down, but Sid simply let his homeland sustain him. Not that the _very_ approving looks he was getting from Andrew and his parents didn't help.

Simon finally gave in, with a muttered comment that Sid was worse than Daniel—to which Sid responded with a smile and a polite “thank you.”

“You, on the other hand,” he said, turning to Nealer, “I have no problems taking money from.”

“Jesus, Sid,” Nealer said, a little offended, dropping some bills in the bowl, “you know I've never stiffed a waitress in my life.”

“Really!” Simon said brightly. “Well, that makes things easier.” Sid almost choked; for his part, Nealer gave Simon a confused look.

Simon turned to Daniel and said, “I'm going to be late tomorrow. If I make it in at all.” Tugging on Nealer's arm, he said, “Come on, James. I just remembered you have a previous engagement.” Nealer looked even more confused, but ambled along anyway.

They were halfway to the door when Daniel, with an _extremely_ gleeful expression on his face, called out, “Simon: remember to glove it when you love it!”

Without missing a beat, Simon called back, “Got it covered, old man.”

Nealer stopped short; comprehension crossed his face. He looked at Simon.

Simon looked at him.

Nealer threw back his head and laughed. Then he pushed open one of the doors for Simon and, still laughing, followed him out.

A number of stunned people just stood in place, staring at the swinging doors. Even Andrew looked shocked. Not Daniel or Elisabeth, though; Daniel looked totally approving, and Elisabeth looked . . . rueful. Which Sid didn't understand at all until she reached into her purse and pulled out a twenty. Handing it to her husband, she remarked, “I should know better than to bet against you.”

Daniel pocketed the bill smugly. And then he rubbed his hands together.

“It's karaoke time!”

**********

As they approached Sid's car, Sid asked, “Are you good to drive?”

“If you're asking if I'm drunk, the answer is no. I'm perfectly happy to drive, but since you're not drunk either, how come?”

Sid handed him the keys. “My stomach hurts. I want to lean back, not hunch over the wheel.”

“Did you eat too much?” Andrew opened the passenger door, and then walked around to the other side. “You didn't seem to. By hockey player standards, anyway.” He put the pizza box in the back seat, and then got in the front.

“It's not that,” Sid confessed, sprawling over the other seat. “I laughed too much. God, Sasha: your parents. I mean, first your mom doing Madonna, and then . . . oh, fuck, then your _dad._ . . !”

“Doing the disco queen. I'm just going to say, for the record, that I'm not responsible for my parents' questionable taste in music. Still, I was more surprised that any karaoke set up would have _I Will Survive_ on it in the first place.” He laughed. “I'm sure the video on my phone won't do it justice. Simon will never forgive himself for cutting out early.”

Sid thought for a second. “Speaking of Simon. Do you really think . . . he and Nealer?”

Andrew opened his mouth, and then hesitated. After a minute he said, “Honestly? I can see James taking a walk on the wild side every so often. With the right inducement. What I can't see is the two of them being terribly compatible in bed. Simon may not look the part—and the fact that he plays the role of stereotypical sassy gay office assistant to the hilt doesn't exactly help matters—but from what I understand, he's a total top.”

Sid was fascinated. “How do you know?”

“Not from practical experience, I assure you. From Dad. Who, believe it or not, _is_ capable of being circumspect, but he's let some things slip over the years. Dad never met a social boundary he wasn't able to ignore, and I think Simon tells him everything—mostly, if I had to guess, in a vain attempt to get Dad to stop trying to find him his soul mate; Yente the Matchmaker is a total amateur compared to Dad.”

“Did you ask your mom what the bet was that she lost?”

“No; I didn't think of it.”

“Well, I did. I wasn't going to, but it just came out of my mouth.” Sid sighed a little. “That seems to happen a lot around you and your family.”

Without taking his eyes off the road, Andrew reached over and patted Sid's thigh. “I'm quite fond of unfiltered Sidney. What did Mom say?”

“Well, I'm not 100 percent sure I understood her perfectly, but I think the bet was not whether or not Simon would hook up, but whether he would hook up with Nealer specifically.”

“Interesting. Well, I imagine we'll find out tomorrow what happened. We'll compare notes.”

“That sounds like a plan.”

Just then, Andrew's phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and passed it over. “Would you get that?”

“Hello? No, it's Sid; Andrew's driving. Uh, how do I do . . . oh.”

Simon's voice came out of the phone.

“Sasha?”

“I'm here, Simon. But what are you doing on the phone? Don't tell me your evening's over already.”

A very audible snort came through. “Hardly. James is in the shower, and I'm recharging. Listen, Sasha: your parents' plane out tonight just got canceled. What flight are you on tomorrow?”

“It's around 8:30. JetBlue.”

“Oh good. Hang on.” There was a brief silence. “Okay, I'm back. There's plenty of seats. I'm going to book all of us on that flight. Okay?”

“Sure. What are Mom and Dad going to do?”

“I'll get them a room. They're on the other line, so let me go. . . . “

“No, wait,” Sid interrupted. “They should come to my house, not a hotel.”

There was silence from the phone.

“Seriously. I have plenty of room. Right, Sasha?”

Andrew had kind of a funny look on his face, but he spoke up readily enough. “Sidney certainly has the room, Simon. You should pass the offer on.”

“Well, okay. But you know what they're like.”

“I know. But ask them anyway.”

“And tell them that I'd really like it if they stayed with us,” Sid threw in.

“Okay. Stand by.”

Sid said, a little hesitantly, “That's okay, isn't it? Inviting your parents?”

“Of course it is, Sidney. It's incredibly nice of you, and I'm sure they'll appreciate the invitation. But Mom and Dad . . . they never want to feel like they're intruding, or being a burden or something. So don't be disappointed if they say no.”

Simon's voice came back. “They said they'd love to, Sidney.” The disbelief was plain, even over the phone. Sid glanced over at Andrew, and saw his eyebrows were sky-high. He was smiling, though.

“Good. Should we go back and get them?”

“No, they can use the car I ordered to take them to the airport. I'd expect them in, say, 40 minutes or so.”

“Okay.” Then Sid gave in to impulse. “You and Nealer could come over too.”

 _Dead_ silence from the phone.

“Oh, do come, Simon,” Andrew said, his face alight with unholy glee. “We could have a slumber party.”

“The last thing I intend to do tonight is slumber. Although . . . I have to admit, I'd love to see the look on James' face when he hears that little invitation.”

“So would I,” both Sid and Andrew said, in almost perfect unison.

“Well, maybe I'll take a picture. But no. Thanks, but no thanks. The four of you will have to muddle on without us. Anyway: let me go. Good night, guys.” And he ended the call.

Sid put the phone in the cup holder between the seats. “Is there anything your parents are going to need? Should we stop somewhere?”

“I shouldn't think so,” Andrew said, after a moment's thought. “There's stuff for breakfast. The only thing I can think of that they'll need is clean underwear, and I doubt we could find that at this hour.”

Sid opened his mouth to suggest Walmart, and then closed it without speaking, his mind occupied with the basic improbability of Andrew's mother even entering Walmart, let alone wearing anything from there. His father, on the other hand, would probably go up and down every single aisle. He laughed out loud—good, his stomach was hurting less—and when he told Andrew, he laughed even harder.

“Mom is by no means a snob when it comes to people, but when it comes to clothes? Definitely, and underwear especially. The last time I did laundry at home, she threw away all of mine. Which she called rags, and told me I should be ashamed to be seen in any of it. When I pointed out that nobody was likely to, I got 'The Look of Maternal Disapproval and Eternal Despair.' I think she's got a patent on that look.”

“I can relate. My parents have their own versions of it; I guess every parent does.”

“I suppose so.” Andrew glanced at him. “Sidney, feel free to tell me to shut up, but I'm curious. You almost never talk about your parents. Is there . . . I don't know, bad blood between you and them?”

Sid forced his spine to relax. And to stomp on his instinctual reaction to change the subject. This was Andrew, after all.

“No, not really. It's . . . kind of complicated.” He hesitated.

“You don't have to explain. I'm sorry if I was intrusive.”

“Sasha. You weren't. I was just thinking of how to put it into words.” He thought a little more. “I guess the most important things are: I love my parents, and I know they love me. They went through a lot as I was growing up, what with all the training and all. They're both really proud of me. But, in different ways, they . . . uh, well, the gay thing. It . . . bothers them.”

His eyes darted over, and he got a very good idea of what Andrew's mad face looked like.

“I don't mean in any kind of homophobic way. Or, not exactly. It's more like . . . Dad is sorry I'm gay, not because he's anti-gay, but because he thought it would ruin my chances to go pro when I was young, so he basically told me to ignore it. As he did. Does. It's . . . like, a forbidden subject. Something on the shelf to be taken down and dusted off when I retire. And Mom?” He paused. “I guess for Mom, it's that she wants me to be happy. And she knows that hockey makes me happy. So while she doesn't disagree with Dad's strategy, she doesn't really endorse it either. Which means she ignores the whole subject too. Maybe she feels caught in the middle between us. Not that Dad and I fight about it. 'Cause like I said, we don't talk about it. I think the last time we even mentioned it was when I told him I was going to tell Mario.” He thought he was finished, but then decided he needed to say one more thing. “It maybe sounds more bleak than it is.”

He chanced another look. Andrew's lips were compressed, but he didn't say anything. So Sid added the last thing. “It's not like I disagreed with my dad's advice either. Back then.”

Andrew surprised Sid by pulling over to the side of the road. He put the brake on, reached over, and pulled Sid into a fierce hug. Which Sid melted into. Then, still without a word, Andrew turned back to the wheel and finished driving them home.

**********

Sid was already in bed when Andrew walked back into the bedroom.

“Your parents all set?”

“I guess. Squabbling over how many blankets to use. Which they've been doing for thirty years.” He rolled his eyes as he got into bed. “Mom approves of your sheets, by the way.”

“I told you they were the best.” Sid snuggled over and Andrew's arms welcomed him.

“At least forty times.”

“You're making that number up.”

“It's not a number, it's an estimate.”

“It had a number in it. So it's a number.”

“That logic is circular. Not to mention specious.”

Sid tilted his head back so he could look at Andrew. “You're like one of those 'Word-A-Day' calendars.”

“Why, thank you, Sidney. I think.”

Sid hugged Andrew even closer. “Oh, Sasha. I'm going to miss this when you leave.”

“And the 'this' in that statement means what, exactly?”

Sid whapped the back of Andrew's head. “Don't be my tenth grade English teacher. And you know perfectly well what I mean.”

“Maybe I do. And maybe I don't. But it was a real question.”

Andrew's voice was serious, so Sid thought about what to say.

“Well, I'm going to miss you, obviously. Seeing you. Doing things with you. Being close to you. Touching you. Having sex with you. But also . . . you promise you won't laugh?”

“I promise I'll try not to. Remember, you're the one who told me to set achievable goals.”

Sid supposed he had. “I think . . . that just lying here in bed with you, bundled up, talking in the dark, and then listening to you sing in my ear while you hold me . . . I think that's been my favorite part of having you here.”

Andrew squeezed him. “It's certainly near the top of my list. Probably number three.”

“What's number one? Or number two?” Sid was really curious.

Andrew didn't say anything for a little bit, and when he did start talking, his voice sounded kind of hesitant.

“I think my second favorite thing is watching a game with you. I love the way you assimilate the whole process. You're analytical and excited, both at the same time. I'm sure it sounds almost ridiculous, but sometimes I imagine you actually absorbing the energy from everything that's going on on the ice. You're alive . . . well, obviously, you're alive, but you're also living. Vital, maybe, is what I mean.” His voice got a little softer. “I find it terribly sexy.”

Sid had to swallow. “And what's number one?” His voice was lower too, and a little husky.

“Number one is . . . an amalgamation of numbers two and three. I love our quiet moments in bed, and I love singing you to sleep. But my absolutely favorite thing about being with you, Sidney, is singing to you when I can see your face. It's different from watching you watch hockey, and yet it's also very similar. I love watching you listen to me—love watching you react to the music, to my voice. Love watching your emotions change. Love watching you feel.” He shivered a little. “The other night, when I sang to you at the piano, after supper? I swear to God, Sidney, I almost couldn't finish the song; it was all I could do to keep myself from bending you over the piano and fucking us both blind.”

“I. . . .” Sid cleared his throat and started again. “I kind of wish you had.”

“Well, it was after sundown.” He squeezed Sid again. “And with luck, and our own stubbornness, we'll have many other opportunities in the future.”

Sid squeezed him back; they were both hard. Which wasn't at all surprising. “And now we have the idea. To, uh, keep us company. While we're not together.”

Andrew chuckled, low and lewdly. “If we're being honest, I let that particular idea keep me company in the shower the next morning.”

Sid groaned, pressing his groin into Andrew's as hard as he could; “I'm not sure why, but I think that's even hotter.” After a minute, he muttered, “Don't hold this against me, but I'm beginning to regret inviting your parents.”

“Why?”

“Because with them here, we can't do anything.”

“Of course we can.”

“Andrew!” Sid's voice squeaked. “Stop that!”

“Sidney.” Andrew's tone was fond. “I assure you my parents know what sex is. That I'm here is evidence of that. I can also assure you that, having shared a house with them for more than twenty years, I know for a fact they have a very healthy sex life. And I will say with some measure of confidence that tomorrow morning, when we all gather in the kitchen for breakfast, Dad, if not both of them, will tease us mercilessly. So _I_ say, if we going to have to endure that anyway, why not reap some benefits from it?”

“I'm pretty sure there's a flaw in your logic,” Sid gasped a minute or so later, “but I don't give a fuck!”

**********

Sure enough, the next morning, Daniel, with what he probably thought was hidden glee, said, “I hope you boys slept well; I heard some very strange noises last night.”

Andrew gave Sid an “I told you so” look, but didn't deign to respond. Sid, though, had had an inspiration in the bathroom earlier.

“Oh, you mean the singing lessons?” Both of Andrew's parents looked startled; Andrew tried to hide his grin in his coffee mug. “Andrew's teaching me proper breath control. It does take a lot of practice, but the rewards,” and he paused and shook his head, ”are outstanding.” And he smiled widely as the other three dissolved into laughter.

**********

When the car arrived, Sid helped Andrew carry his luggage outside, where Elisabeth and Daniel were greeting Samuel. Elisabeth turned to Sid.

“It's been a great pleasure to see you again, Sidney.” And as she had done the day before, she kissed him on both cheeks. And then she pulled his head down a little and kissed him on the forehead. “I know I will see you soon. Be well until then.”

“I hope it is soon,” Sid said honestly. “And I'll do my best. You too.”

Daniel pulled Sid into an exuberant hug, and then astounded Sid by saying softly, directly into his ear, “I'm so happy Sasha found you. I'll miss you, my boy,” and kissing him on the cheek.

Sid didn't know what to say, but Daniel simply clapped him on the shoulder, and got into the car after Elisabeth.

Samuel went to close the door, but Andrew said, “Would you give us a minute, Samuel?”

“Of course.” And Samuel went around the car and got back in the driver's seat.

“Sidney, I'm going to go with Mom and Dad. They're going to the airport anyway. It's a waste of your time.”

“I don't care about that. I want to take you.”

“I know you do. And I know you don't care. But Sidney . . . I would a thousand times rather we said goodbye here. Because there, I couldn't do this.” And he pulled Sid into his arms and kissed him deeply.

And Sid kissed him back. A little desperately.

And so they stood there, holding each other tightly, rocking back and forth, letting the silence speak for them. And when they let go of each other, their eyes finished the conversation.

Sid cleared his throat. “I guess . . . this is it, then. For a while.”

“I suppose it is.” Andrew hesitated, and then yanked Sid into his arms again. This time, the kiss was almost brutal. And far too short.

“I'll see you soon, _mon oie_. Maybe sooner than you think.”

“Any time, Sasha. I mean it.” They locked eyes for a minute, and then Sid said, “Text me when you get home, okay?”

“Will do.” Andrew turned to get in the car, then stopped, looked back, and started to sing.

 

 

> _Addio, addio, speranza ed anima_
> 
> _sol tu sarai per me._

 

“What does that mean?”

“Goodbye.”

“That seemed like a lot of words for goodbye.”

“Well, I may have included a couple of operatic embellishments. I have my reputation as the Pen's favorite opera singer to uphold, you know.”

Sid laughed. “Go get yourself some standing O's.”

“And you go get yourself lots of points.” Andrew got in the car, and Sid shut the door after him. He stepped back, and waved as the car pulled away.

Then, ignoring the time and his own car, he went back into the house. He walked directly to Andrew's music room, sat down, and dropped his head into his hands.

After a couple of minutes, he took out his phone, and sent Simon a text: “ _They just left.”_

Almost instantly, Simon texted back: “ _Thx for letting me know_.”

Sid drummed his fingers on the bench for a few seconds, and then typed, “ _What do u know abt pianos_?”

 

**********END OF THE FIRST PERIOD**********

 


	15. Chapter 15

Andrew turned away from the car window, looked at his parents, and said, “Well.” Then he shocked himself by starting to cry.

Instantly, his father pulled him into his arms. Andrew let himself be welcomed against his father's chest for a few moments. He then pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, and just the sight of it reminded him of Sidney's chirping him . . . when? Just the night before? He almost dissolved again, but gathered what little strength of will he had left.

“Sorry,” he said thickly, blowing his nose.

“Don't be absurd, Sasha,” his mother said. “There's nothing wrong with crying. I'll admit: it's better if they're tears of joy than sadness, but they're still necessary.”

“It's been years since you've cried, Sasha,” his father threw in. “You should do it more often. You don't want to become emotionally constipated. That runs in my side of the family, as you well know.”

Andrew choked out a laugh. “Heaven forbid.” He sank back against the seat. “Oh, God. Mom, Dad: what am I going to do? I really, really, _really_ don't want to leave. But of course I have to.” He grimaced. “For the first time in years, I'm finding the thought of my career less than inspiring. Do you know that I actually contemplated not going home today? Of coming up with some excuse to stay?”

“Of course you did,” Elisabeth said, matter-of-factly. “And of course, you didn't stay.”

“You could, you know,” Daniel told him. “Samuel can turn the car around.”

“I can't. You know that, Dad.”

“No, Sasha, you could. I'm not saying it's the right choice. Or, at least, I'm not saying it's the right choice for today. But you could.” He paused, and then said, in his most serious voice, “You've always relished a challenge, Sasha. And you've always enjoyed learning new things. So, here's your chance to do both of those things. You're in love for the first time . . . well, for the first time as an adult. You have to learn how to balance this strange, new, wonderful thing with the rest of your life. And you may find that easy to do. Or incredibly difficult.”

Elisabeth joined in. “But if you want Sidney in your life, you _will_ find a way. You're not our son for free, you know.”

“Believe me, I know,” Andrew said. And after a moment, he added, “And I do want him. More than I ever thought possible. After . . . well. You know.”

Neither Daniel nor Elisabeth was inclined to follow that particular conversational thread.

“So: what are you going to do? Move to Pittsburgh?”

Andrew stared at his father. “It's a little early for that, don't you think?”

Daniel shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not. But you could. And it would have to be you who moved: at least, while Sidney's still playing. He has a 'no movement' clause in his contract, you know.”

“No, I didn't know. Since I've never even heard of such a thing. How do _you_ know that?”

“I have a brain. And an Internet connection.”

“Well, if you move to Pittsburgh—or even if you don't—you have to do something about that house of his, Sasha. It's thoroughly depressing.”

“It certainly is. I already know exactly what colors you should paint the kitchen. And that wall by the stairs? It definitely needs a mural.” Daniel looked slyly at his son. “The place would also be greatly improved if it had our grandchildren running around in it.”

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” Andrew shook his head. “And I thought Sidney was moving too fast. You're unbelievable.”

“No. Just practical.”

Andrew rolled his eyes, but before he could say anything, he got distracted by the car's pulling over.

“What are we . . . ? Oh, Simon.” He looked out the window, and there he was. Talking to James.

Daniel peered past him. And then cackled. “I can't decide who looks the worse for wear. James must be very . . . versatile.”

Andrew groaned. And opened the door. And he and his parents watched as Simon's attempt to get in the car was thwarted by James pulling Simon in for an extremely exuberant hug. And kiss.

When James released Simon, he slapped him on the ass, and said, “Go get 'em, Tiger.” He waved jauntily at the Copleys. “Don't be strangers, guys.” Then, pointing a finger at Andrew, he added, “Especially you, Ace.”

“I'm working on it. Play well, James, and I'll see you as soon as I can.”

The minute the car door was closed, all three of the Copleys said, in unison, “Tiger?”

Simon smirked. “He may have a few scratches.” He then shifted in his seat. “And I may have a couple myself.”

Daniel was entranced. “Tell us everything!”

“Maybe later. Got to make you work for it, old man. And who are you texting, Sasha? As if I didn't know.”

“As it happens, I'm not texting Sidney. He's not the best person to carry out this particular mission, so I'm texting Tommy. And Zhenya.”

“And what mission might that be?”

“I think the Pens need a complete catalog of every mark on James' body. Photographic evidence, if possible. In the interests of science, of course.”

“Of course.” After a beat, Simon added, “They may need extra batteries.”

Daniel and Elisabeth roared.

**********

Once they were settled at the gate, Elisabeth asked, “So what are your plans, darling?”

“Well, my main objective is to figure out how I can see Sidney more often, given the insanity of our schedules. With the added complication that we need to be a little circumspect; Sidney's not out, and doesn't want to be.”

Elisabeth eyed her son. “Does that bother you?”

“Nope. Well, aside from the fact that it makes planning things more difficult. To be honest, I don't blame him a bit. And . . . oh, who knows, Mom? When I met Sidney, he wasn't even out to the team. Now, he is. And Tommy is, too. Things are changing. I just hope. . . .“ He shook his head. “Never mind.”

“What? Tell me, Sasha.”

Andrew bit his lip. “I just hope Sidney came out because he wanted to. Or because he was ready. I really hope he didn't come out just for me.”

Elisabeth was silent for a moment. “Well, I don't know him very well yet; I've only seen him three times. But I'd say it's doubtful he did. Of course, I think it's highly probable he came out _because_ of you.”

Huffing a laugh, Andrew said, “I'm not sure there's that much of a difference, practically speaking. But let's table that discussion; right now, I'm much more concerned with logistics.”

“About what?” Daniel asked, handing his wife a coffee.

“Three things, mostly. For one of which I need you, Dad. And for another, I need you, Mom. Well, maybe both you and Dad, but definitely you.”

He pulled out his laptop, and opened his scheduling program. “Take a look at this, Dad.” Daniel and Simon bent over the screen, and Andrew turned back to his mother.

“And for you? I'd like you to arrange a little dinner party. In D.C. With Alex Ovechkin and his wife. After my concert there this coming weekend.”

Elisabeth raised her eyebrows. “Ovechkin? Why?”

Andrew started to explain. It wasn't long before Elisabeth was smiling broadly.

“I see you've assimilated Sun Tzu: 'Know your enemy.'”

Andrew wrinkled his nose. “I don't think of Ovechkin as my enemy. Exactly. And I was thinking more of _Babylon 5_ : 'Always plant a lie inside of a truth.'”

Elisabeth laughed. “That is also very good philosophy. But actually, Sun Tzu makes that point as well: 'All warfare is based on deception.'”

“I suppose. But I don't intend to go to war—with Alex Ovechkin or anybody else. My only goal—if you will excuse my using that word—is for it not to seem at all strange for me to be in the company of various and sundry members of the NHL. And let me be the first to admit: this whole thing may not even get off the ground. Or it may progress, and then fail miserably. But I think it's worth a try. Will you help?”

“Of course I will, darling. Tell me: is his wife Russian?”

“I have no idea. Does it matter?”

“It might.”

Andrew pulled out his phone and searched. “Uh, according to Wikipedia, she is.”

“Oh, good. That makes this more fun.”

“Why, exactly?”

She smirked. “Because I'll be able to wear some of Mama's jewelry.”

Andrew laughed. “Silver linings, huh?”

“Hardly silver, darling. Platinum, of course.”

“Oh, of course.” They shared a laugh.

“Will you have enough time to arrange something?”

“I'm sure I will. Julia will help.”

“Julia? You mean, the woman who's on maternity leave? Who gave birth only days ago?”

“Yes, yes, and yes. Also, the woman who called me yesterday and told me, and I quote, 'I'm going batshit insane. Give me something to do before my brain atrophies.'”

“Well, we can't have that,” Andrew laughed.

“So what else are you planning?”

“There's not that much I can do, short term. We'll see how the Ovechkin thing goes. I _might_ be able to wrangle another concert in Pittsburgh in the late spring; Bradley's working on that, but neither he nor I think the chances are all that great. And speaking of Bradley. . . .” He picked up his phone and sent a text.

“Yes?”

“I just gave Bradley permission to open fire on the Pittsburgh Opera.” He gave his mother an evil grin. “And since we've now returned to our martial metaphors: he'll go through them like Sherman did Atlanta.”

“You sound just like your grandmother,” Elisabeth said admiringly.

“Flatterer. Anyway: I guess we'll have to see how these first stratagems work out. Didn't Sun Tzu also say that opportunities multiply as they are seized? I hope he was right.”

Elisabeth patted him on the arm, before taking out her own phone and making a call. Andrew looked over at the two other men. Who were arguing and manhandling his laptop.

“Dad? What do you think?”

Daniel ignored him, but Simon spared him a glance.

“Genius is at work, Sasha. Shut your face.”

Andrew saluted. “Sir, yes sir! Or did you hear enough of that last night?”

“There can never be enough of what I heard last night—and well into this morning.”

Daniel jabbed him with his elbow. “Sex later, Simon. Look here. . . .”

Andrew chuckled. “I should take a picture,” he said to himself. “My family, hard at work.” Instead, he took out his phone again, and sent a text. 

> _Sitting at the airport. Missing you._

 **********

Sid wasn't at all surprised to see the rookie's car when he parked at Consol—he'd gotten a late start, after all. But what astounded him was the fact that Nealer's car was also there. Which was almost unprecedented. Wondering what this meant, and he couldn't help but imagine the worst, Sid walked towards the locker room a little faster than usual. He caught up with Nealer just before he pushed the door open.

“Oh hey, Sid,” Nealer said cheerfully.

Sid couldn't help but stare. Nealer looked . . . actually, he looked like he had spent the night doing exactly what Sid was now virtually certain he probably had.

“Morning, Nealer.” Sid entered the locker room behind him, wondering if he should say something. Ask something, maybe. But what? When the first thing to enter his mind was, “Is Simon really totally a top?” he decided to say absolutely nothing.

The rookie looked up from his gear bag, took one look at Nealer, and burst out laughing.

“You look like you didn't get much sleep, Nealer.”

Sid stopped in place, watching to see how Nealer would react. Shame? Anger? Embarrassment? Denial?

He didn't expect preening.

“I didn't,” Nealer said, grinning widely. “But it was so worth it.”

The rookie and Sid exchanged glances. “It's only the three of us here,” the rookie said. “Want to share before the others show up?”

“Hey, I don't kiss and tell.”

“That is such a fucking lie, Nealer.”

Sid had to agree. “Do you remember that time you and Jordy hooked up with those two sisters in Columbus? You went into so much detail that even Tanger looked nauseous.” Sid had wanted to pour bleach in his ears.

Nealer barked out a laugh. “Like I could forget that night. Well, just between the three of us, then: last night was better.” He shook his head. “That Simon . . . abso-fucking-lutely incredible. Best sex I've ever had with a guy, and probably in the top two or three of all time. Probably only the night I spent with that trapeze artist was hotter, and that's maybe because she was double-jointed.”

Sid winced, and held up his hand. “Do not go there, Nealer. Please. I've tried very hard to forget every single fucking detail of that night; I think everybody in the league feels the same way.”

“Simon didn't feel that way,” Nealer smirked. “He loved that story. That's how round three started. Which was the time he bent me almost in half, and fucked me 'til I came on my own face.”

There were times when Sid wished he really were a robot; having the capacity to delete things from one's mind sounded like an asset.

He glanced over at the rookie, and the only word he could use to describe the look on his face was envious. So, just for a second, Sid put himself in Nealer's place . . . and all of a sudden, the image wasn't so horrific. At all.

Nealer cackled. And Sid came back to the present.

“Can we get ready for practice? Please?” Sid refused to admit that his voice sounded so plaintive.

“Sure thing, Sid. But . . . honestly, I want to thank you. The two of you.”

“For what?” Suspiciously.

“For being open with us. You know, about the gay stuff. I mean, I don't hook up with guys all that often, but I sure as shit don't do it where anybody I know is gonna see me. But now . . . with you two, it's a thing, and we've all talked about it, and everybody's cool with it, so last night, I figured, why not? And fuck, am I glad I did!”

“I'm really fucking happy we made it easy for you to get laid, Nealer,” the rookie said, sounding not at all happy. “When the fuck is it gonna be my turn?” He stalked back to his stall, muttering.

The locker room door opened, and Flower walked in, followed by Duper and Tanger. Tanger had evidently been telling them a story, and the fact that all six of their eyes went straight to Nealer gave Sid a clue about what this day was going to be like.

Geno bustled in then. He waved at Sid, but went directly to the rookie and asked him something in a low tone. The rookie grinned, and held up his phone. Geno laughed, and held up his own. Wondering what was going on, Sid stared as they crossed the room—but then they stopped, and seemed to be waiting for something. While doing things with their phones.

 _“Calice de tabarnac!_ ” Tanger said loudly. As if that was their cue, Geno and the rookie sprang forward. 

********** 

Everybody was finally ready for practice and about to head to the ice, when Nealer, still sulking, checked his phone for the last time—and then cocked his head, arrested.

“Hey. I got a text from Ace.” Sid swung his head around as Nealer started laughing. “No, actually, it's from his dad.” A look of immense self-satisfaction filled his face. “According to Daniel, I'm an inspiration!”

**********

The next few days were . . . not pleasant for Sid. He played some of the worst hockey of his life the night after Andrew left. At the end of the first period, he stormed to his locker, not even caring that everybody was eyeing him like he was a time bomb. For that matter, he felt like one. Why the fuck did they have to be playing the Flyers tonight of all nights? he thought, savagely tearing the top off a bottle of Gatorade; he wanted to take his stick and impale Claude fucking Giroux with it.

He took a couple of deep breaths; he knew he had to calm the fuck down. He was about to close his eyes and attempt to do so, when he saw his phone. Sid hesitated; he never checked his phone during a game. Although . . . maybe Andrew had sent him a text.

Which he had: but all it said was, “Listen to your voice mail.”

So Sid did. And heard Andrew's voice singing something . . . soothing. He could actually _feel_ the tension bleeding out of him. He sank onto his bench and listened to it twice more, only opening his eyes to hit play.

When he felt centered again, he opened his eyes to put his phone down—and saw Geno standing in front of him.

“Sid okay?”

“I'm better now,” Sid said honestly.

Geno gave him a searching look, and then nodded.

Sid glanced around the room, and noticed more than a few eyes jerking away as he scanned from left to right. He stood up.

“Guys,” he said, and then hesitated. He could do this a couple of ways, but. . . . His lips firmed. “I apologize. I sucked out there, and I'm sorry. But I think my head is out of my ass now.”

“You need sunglasses?” somebody chirped him.

“It might help,” Sid said, taking the gesture for what it was, and managing a grin.

A couple of guys laughed, and then it was business as usual.

**********

They still lost, but only by one, and the Flyers had had to sweat for it.

**********

Thursday's game was better; they managed to eke out a win in overtime. Sid was exhausted, and nobody seemed to mind when he said he was going home to crash; more than a few of the guys said they were doing the same thing.

He was scrounging around for something to eat when his phone buzzed. 

> _Want to talk tonight? Let me know when you're home._

Feeling immeasurably more cheerful, he hit Andrew's speed dial number.

“Hey.”

“Sidney! You're home already?”

“I am. I couldn't stand the thought of socializing. So instead, I'm standing in the kitchen, eating leftover chicken. And before you start: yes, Andrew, I am having vegetables. Well, salad.”

“Salad is definitely vegetables,” Andrew said, the amusement in his voice plain to hear. And Sid just sank down at the counter.

“Oh, Sasha. It's so good to hear your voice.”

“Why, thank you, _mon oie_. But this is hardly the first time we've talked since I had to leave.”

“I know. It's the third. But who's counting?” Besides Sid, that was.

Andrew snorted a little. “Oh, no one at all, I'm sure.”

They talked for a while, as Sid finished eating. After he'd cleaned up, he drifted upstairs and lay on his bed. He was beginning to feel like crashing, and Andrew, predictably, seemed to sense that.

“So, Sidney. You must be exhausted. But there's a couple of things I want to talk to you about.”

“Bad things?”

“No. Well, I don't think so. Can you stay awake for ten more minutes?”

“I can do more than that. Let me go get ready for bed, and I'll call you back. And then you can tell me whatever, and then you can sing me to sleep.”

“I suppose I could do that. With the right inducement.”

“And that is?”

“You have to tell me what you want to hear.”

Well, that was a little unexpected. Sid floundered. “But . . . I don't really know the names of the things you sing.”

“I know. But you know how they make you feel. So, while you're getting ready for bed, think about what kind of thing you're in the mood for.”

“I can do that.” Sid was grinning widely. “Talk to you soon, Sasha.”

Sid didn't exactly _hurry_ through his before bed routines, but he didn't waste any time either, and he turned Andrew's requirement over and over in his mind. What was he in the mood for? he wondered as he brushed his teeth. All he really wanted right now was to walk out of the bathroom and get into bed next to Andrew. Which, okay, wasn't possible. But still. He was in the mood for hugs, and banter, and a few kisses, and to drift off to sleep, nestled in Andrew's arms, with his voice wrapping itself around him—around them—like a blanket. But how to translate that into a song request?

Sid practically bounded into bed—if it were possible for someone who had a bruise on his hip the size of PEI to bound—and hit Andrew's speed dial number again.

“That was quick.”

“You gave me incentive.”

Andrew chuckled.

“So: what did you want to talk about?”

There was a pause, and then Andrew said, “I wanted to tell you about my big secret plan. The one that involves Ovechkin.”

Sid was _very_ surprised. “I thought you said I needed plausible deniability.”

“Well, I did think that. And part of me still does. A small part. But . . . I've mostly decided that I was being a little silly. And I have a couple of other reasons too, which I'll tell you later.”

“Why not now?”

“Because one is rather selfish.”

Really? Slowly, Sid responded, “Actually, I find that kind of hard to believe.”

“Oh, believe me, Sidney, I am capable of immense amounts of selfishness. But let's not go there right now. So. My plan. Tell me how much you've figured out already.”

“You mean beyond what you told Geno? You want to give a concert of Russian songs, and you don't want him to help you organize it. Instead, you want Ovechkin to help you. Which you didn't say but which was obvious from the context. And which I couldn't understand at first, given what he did with all of that Twitter shit. But then, I got it. This is part of your plan. Which, I'm sorry, I call 'team, not me' in my head. Except, this is on a bigger scale, right? This is 'hockey, not me.'”

There was a brief pause, and then Andrew said, “Bravo, Sidney.” Sid flushed a little, especially when he heard Andrew clapping at the other end of the line. “Don't ever let me hear you say again that you're no good at reading other people. You hit all of the major points—every point, actually, except for one relatively minor one, which is, before you ask, that it will get Ovechkin off my back. And yes, I know that I'm giving in to his insanity, but it's a small price to pay, I think, if it gets me what I want.”

“I think I know what that is, but tell me anyway.”

“I want to make it so that no one will think twice if I'm seen at a game. Any game. Or with any hockey player.” He paused. “I had been tooling around with this idea anyway, but then Bradley told me someone took a picture of me at one of your home games last week, and posted it on the Internet. It got some buzz. Of the 'opera singer at a sports event? What's wrong with this picture?' variety. And a bunch of people commented that I was in Pittsburgh singing Nemorino. And why couldn't I like hockey? Et cetera. So. You get the idea?”

“I do.” Sid hesitated. “And . . . okay, just let me say this. I'm sorry you feel like you have to go through this whole . . . fuck, I don't know . . . charade.”

“Oh, Sidney.” Andrew's voice was fond. “I know I don't have to. But I think it will make things easier. You have to admit: it's a lot easier to hide something in plain sight. And I don't mind, really. To be honest, I rather like all the intrigue. Plots, and so forth.” He snorted. “It's very operatic of me, I know.”

“Well, I'll take your word for that. Since I've only seen one. But still . . . I wish. . . .”

Andrew interrupted him. “Sidney. Please don't worry about it. It's counter-productive. And it might not even work; Ovechkin may not agree.”

This time, it was Sid who snorted. “Ovechkin will do anything that gets him attention. And that's me being polite about it.”

“You're probably right. Which makes him the perfect choice, you see? Let him have the spotlight; he's welcome to it. As long as I'm not actually singing, anyway,” he added, in such a funny tone that Sid had to laugh.

Andrew went on, “You know, I've never even met the man, but I keep making all of these assumptions about him. Based on his own actions, true, but also on what you and Evgeni have said—and, perhaps, what the two of you _haven't_ said, at least explicitly. It will be interesting to finally meet him in person.”

“Uh, when will that be?”

“Well, I'm leaving for D.C. early tomorrow morning. And I have a ticket for the Caps game tomorrow night, but I doubt I'll see him. So, it'll be Saturday night after my concert, which he and his wife are attending. At the invitation of my parents—specifically, my mother, who is having a ball with my little schemes, incidentally. Said invitation also includes a post-concert dinner for the five of us. At which, Operation Ovechkin will be officially launched.”

“If your mom is involved . . . I kind of wish I could be there.”

Andrew burst out laughing. “It might be safer to be out of blasting range. Although, to be frank: Dad's probably the one to watch out for. Simon told me Dad's compiled a list of Ovechkin's worst games, and has been studying them intensely.”

“Leaving aside the fact that I don't think I've ever seen your father do anything less than intensely . . . I really kind of want to adopt him. Or be adopted by him. Like, right now.” They both laughed, but Sid was actually being serious.

“Okay, so tell me your selfish reason now.”

“Oh. Well, to be blunt: I need your help.”

“Sure. With what?”

“Well, when Bradley got all in Ovechkin's face about what you so accurately described as that Twitter shit, he told him . . . well, told his agent, to be precise, that essentially, Ovechkin was accusing me of violating my recording contract. Which is, at least for the time being, exclusive. And naturally, my label had no idea what CD of Russian songs he kept blithering about, since I've not recorded one. Although,” and even Sid could tell this was an aside, “they're not averse to the idea, surprisingly. Anyway: Ovechkin's agent got him to shut up about it, finally; apparently, it doesn't matter if you represent opera singers or hockey players: all agents take contract violations very, very seriously. Anyway: having raised the specter of contractual issues, I have to tread carefully. So: if I do end up giving a concert for expat hockey players, it has to be decidedly non-commercial. Therefore, I need the names of some good hockey charities. Or foundations or non-profits. You know? I'm assuming there are such things.”

“There are. I give to a couple of them. Ones that focus on young kids, actually.”

“That sounds perfect. But . . . one other thing. I'm sure these are, but I need them to be North American.”

“They are. Both Canadian and U.S. Why?”

“Because even if one of the themes of the concert is Russian, I'm not going anywhere near the quagmire of Russian politics. Given Russia's current stance on what I believe are politely referred to as social issues.”

Sid thought for a minute. “That's probably a good idea. But . . . I can see Ovechkin making a stink about it. About not including a Russian charity, I mean.”

“Well, that's too bad. Sentiment in the opera world is decidedly anti-Putin these days, and I'm not going to be seen as contradicting it. Especially since I agree whole-heartedly with it.”

“I know Geno's unhappy about a lot of what Putin does.”

“That doesn't surprise me in the least.”

“So: that's it? That's your selfish reason? You want me to give you a couple of names?”

“Well, there's one other thing. But it's entirely voluntary, so please, feel free to say no. Would you be willing to watch the Caps game tomorrow night? And share your thoughts with me Saturday morning sometime? In case I need an expert opinion to bolster my credibility with Ovechkin.”

“I can do that. Easily. It's hockey, so it's not a hardship, Ovechkin not withstanding.”

“See, I told you it was selfish. Thanks a million, Sidney.”

“Not to be rude, Sasha, but I think your selfishness needs some work.”

“I'll that that under advisement, _mon oie_. Although: if I ever do get to give this concert—which, leaving my Machiavellian impulses aside, I truly hope I do, because I think it could be really fun—I selfishly hope you'll come.”

“If I can, I will. When will it be?”

“Oh, Sidney: who the hell knows? Next year, maybe? It's pie in the sky, right now. Anyway: enough about that. You must be exhausted. Ready for your lullaby?”

“I'm always ready to hear you sing,” Sid said. “And that's not a line, either.”

After a pause, Andrew said, “You are so, so good for my ego. What would you like to hear? What are you in the mood for?”

Sid hesitated, and then went with the truth. “Well, I really miss you. Do you know any songs that will make me feel like you're actually here?”

“That's . . . a tall order. Let me think a minute.”

Sid waited.

“Well . . . okay, this might work. You ready?”

Sid squirmed into his pillows. “Yeah.”

Andrew started singing: 

> _Io ti vidi. . . ._

And when Sid closed his eyes, it was almost as if Andrew was on the pillow next to him.

**********

Andrew walked briskly off the stage after the first half of the concert ended. He exchanged compliments with some of the other musicians, but didn't stop to talk; he estimated he had no more than four or five minutes to clean up.

Bradley was in his dressing room, reading something on his phone.

“Is that thing surgically attached to your hand?” Andrew picked up the glass of water Bradley had waiting for him and started guzzling.

“Heard it before, Andrew. Your clean shirt is in the bathroom.”

“Bradley, you know you don't have to do things like that. But thanks.” Andrew stripped off quickly, and went in to wash.

“Twitter is loving you tonight,” Bradley called in.

Scrubbing his armpits, Andrew laughed. “Then Twitter has good taste. I wasn't too bad out there.”

He ignored Bradley's snort, dried off his torso, and pulled on his undershirt.

“Everything's ready,” Bradley continued. “Vodka, ice, and the hors d'oeuvres your mother brought. A very nice red wine in reserve. Cheap white wine in the fridge for you just in case. And your usual two gallons of water. I swear, Andrew, you must have been a camel in another lifetime.”

Andrew stopped inserting his shirt studs. “That makes no sense.”

“Of course it does.” Bradley's phone made a noise.

“That's your father. Okay, I am so out of here.”

“Remember: I need a ten minute warning before the second half.”

“Got it. And you remember: your agent has to approve everything.”

“I'm hardly likely to forget, Bradley; that way, I can blame everything on you.” He adjusted his waistcoat. “Now I suggest you leave—unless you want to meet Ovechkin in person.”

“I'm more than happy to defer that pleasure.” And Bradley slipped out the door.

Andrew took a gulp of water, refilled the glass, then donned his tailcoat and checked the mirror. “Good enough,” he thought, smoothing his hair.

There was a tap on the door. It's curtain time, he thought. And then he grinned. Or puck drop.

“Come in,” he called out.

**********

When Sid got up on Sunday morning, he found a text from Andrew. 

> _Concert went well. Follow this link to see a new kind of standing O._

Curious, Sid obeyed—and saw a picture of Andrew in his white tie . . . standing next to Ovechkin. Who was grinning idiotically. So, looking like himself.

Sid made a face, and sent a return text. 

> _Ugh. Not b4 breakfast._

His phone rang a minute later.

“Hey.”

“Good morning, _mon oie_. You're up earlier than I thought you'd be; sorry to put you off your feed.”

“I haven't even had tea yet,” Sid groused. “I'm not sure I can face food now.”

“Poor you. You'll waste away into nothing.”

“Well, hardly that,” Sid admitted. “It's still too early in the season for me to be that underweight.” He turned the gas off under the kettle, and filled the teapot. “So it went well? The concert, I mean?”

“People seemed to enjoy it. It took me over an hour to get out of there, afterwards. And then I had dinner with Mom and Dad. And He Who Must Not Be Named. And his wife, who is very nice, and not at all what I imagined he'd pick in a spouse. She just let him go on and on, and then every so often, she'd insult him.” He laughed. “It must be a Russian thing.”

“I like her already. Actually, I think Geno likes her too.”

“Well, then. And to spare you the indignity of having to ask: I think Operation Ovechkin went pretty well too. He seemed quite amenable to the idea of the concert. He wanted it to be for Russians only, so I had to squelch that idea. Actually, he had a lot of ideas, most of which were either too grandiose or completely untenable.”

“So, like him.” Sid poured his tea, and sat down, grinning at the laughter pealing out of his phone.

“Anyway: I'd say the chances are good that the concert will happen. And Ovechkin is doing a lot of my work for me, by insisting on that picture of the two of us. Oh, hang on a second.”

Andrew's voice got muffled. Sid took a tentative sip of his tea—still too hot. He heard a kind of thud through the phone, and then Andrew was back. “But enough of all of that. Are you ready to enjoy your day off?”

“I am,” Sid admitted. “It'd be better if you were here, though.”

“Really? Well, ask, and you shall receive.”

“Huh?” Just then, Sid heard the door open, and footsteps heading his way. His heart sped up as Andrew appeared in the kitchen. Making an undignified squeal that he would disavow for the rest of his life, Sid leapt at him.

Peppering him with kisses, Sid got out, “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“It's only an hour from D.C. by plane. And I wanted to see you.” Andrew dove in for another kiss. “I hope I'm not intruding.”

“Fuck, no! Anytime, Sasha. Anytime.” Sid abandoned words, and sense, and pretty much everything in favor of losing himself in Andrew's arms.

**********

A couple of hours later, Sid stirred lazily. Andrew was still napping, and Sid took the opportunity to study him. He couldn't see his eyes, of course—which Sid privately thought were Andrew's best feature—but mentally he traced the eyebrows, which were a shade or two darker than his hair. Then the corners of his eyes, where the laugh and smile creases hid. He noted the spot between his eyes where the two almost parallel lines sometimes appeared when Andrew was deep in thought; the lower line hooked down on the left side of his nose, which was a little long—and exactly like his father's. Finally, he studied Andrew's lips, which were a little fuller—and redder—than usual—due, no doubt, to the workout they'd just received.

A memory, probably long stored in some obscure cubbyhole in his brain, floated to the surface. It was of his English teacher in what?—seventh, eighth grade?—trying to explain figures of speech. One of the examples she had used was “Her heart sang at the sight.” And somebody in the class had objected, saying that hearts couldn't sing. Which, in retrospect, was something the teacher had probably hoped someone would say, because it let her make her point all over again. And Sid had thought (to himself, of course), that maybe what the teacher was describing was the way he felt on the ice.

Sid now had an entirely new definition of singing. And a better understanding of that metaphor, now that he thought about it. Since he'd just experienced it.

Andrew stirred, and opened his eyes.

“Hey,” Sid said. “Want to nap a little more?”

Andrew shook his head and then stretched. “I probably could. But I'm famished. How about you?”

“I could definitely eat.”

Andrew threw back the covers. “Let's go see what we can scrounge up.”

Sid followed Andrew downstairs. “I don't know what there is; I haven't gone shopping.”

Peering into the refrigerator, Andrew made a face. “This is depressing, Sidney.”

“We could go out,” Sid offered, half-heartedly. He'd go, if Andrew wanted to. But Andrew shook his head.

“I'd really rather not go to a restaurant. I'm only here for the day, and I don't particularly feel like sharing you.” He bit his lip. “Are there any places that deliver on a Sunday morning? I'll even ignore most of my nutritional standards, in the interests of using our time together wisely.”

Sid couldn't help but roll his eyes his eyes a little at the basic impossibility of Andrew doing any such thing. Then he had a thought.

“I know a place we can call. I think.” He walked over to the end of the counter and pulled open a drawer. “The team nutritionist put together this list; I'm sure she said something about Sundays.”

Andrew came and looked over Sid's shoulder.

“The food looks good—well, the descriptions do, at any rate. But Jesus: it's expensive.”

Sid rolled his eyes again. “I think I can handle it. And don't even start with me, Andrew; it's my treat. Besides: since when do you care what something costs?”

Andrew narrowed his eyes. “Just what is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you are an insanely generous person; you've bought the guys more drinks since this season started than any three or four of them combined. And you don't stint on food, for sure. I know this, because I ate your cooking for nearly two weeks.”

Andrew looked somewhat mollified. “Well. Both of those things are essential. But I don't waste money, Sidney. I may spend a fair amount, but I only do so on things that are important. Well, that I consider important, at any rate; my parents probably define things differently.”

“Uh, I'm pretty sure your mother has a different definition of almost everything. And I'd bet your dad's definition of important isn't even in the dictionary.”

Andrew burst out laughing. “You may very well be right. It certainly didn't take you long to figure them out.” He gave Sid a quick hug. “Come on, _mon oie_. Let's order some food. And then we'll figure out what we're going to do for the rest of the day.”

“I have a few ideas,” Sid said, striving for a straight face.

“I'm sure you do. And so do I.”

Sid couldn't wait.

**********

That night, when they were lying in bed together, Sid spoke up. “This has been a much nicer day than I anticipated. Thanks for the surprise, Sasha.”

“You're welcome. I'd say that the pleasure was entirely mine—but you'd know I was lying.”

Sid giggled—and couldn't even find it within himself to care.

“American Thanksgiving is next Thursday; it's late this year. Do you have any plans?”

“Not really. I'm leaving for Houston right after that, so I'll probably just be getting ready. Then London, right after New Year's. God, January in London: what the hell was I thinking? Chicago in February. New York in March. And then, thank God, I built in a little free time in April, because May is insane.” Even in the dimness of the room, Sid could see him shake his head. “Why do you ask?”

Diffidently, Sid said, “Well, I have two days off. Two full days. Usually, the other Canadians and I do something—it's not our holiday, you know?—but maybe . . . you and I could get together?”

Andrew was silent for a second. “Well, I'd love to see you. But . . . you'd have to come to Boston. Thanksgiving is . . . a big deal in my dad's family.” He shifted a little. “I don't mean our family, but my dad's parents, their other children, and all the uncles and aunts—including the greats, and the great-greats. And about twelve thousand cousins, nieces, and nephews. Some _very_ distant ancestor was at the first Thanksgiving, so most of them act as if they own it. It's kind of a demand performance. And . . . not a lot of fun.” He snorted. “Thanksgiving night is pretty much the one time each year Mom and Dad get rip-roaring drunk. Once they've escaped and are back home, of course. They have this game where they repeat all the obnoxious things Dad's family said to them over the course of the day. And then they each try to come up with the best retort. And whoever loses each round has to do a shot. Given what Dad's family is like, the game can last fifteen or twenty rounds. Easily.”

Sid's mind was whirling. “Wait. The _first_ Thanksgiving? You mean, what, the Pilgrims?”

“You betcha.”

Sid couldn't imagine. “And why don't they get along with your parents? Your parents are great!”

“Well, on their behalf, I thank you. I think they're great too.” Andrew sighed. “Dad's . . . not like anybody else in his family. Well, not like any of the other men in his family. Which, believe me, is a compliment. _Dedushka_ Alex always said that Dad could have been his brother. Which really _is_ a compliment. It's too long—and too boring—a story for right now. Suffice it to say that Dad's always been an outcast.” He paused. “Sidney, as much as I would like to see you, I'm not sure Thanksgiving is the right time or place. I have to go to Dad's family, and . . . well, to put it bluntly, you'd certainly be welcome (by me and Mom and Dad, and most likely by Dad's sisters), but I don't think we can trust Dad's brothers to be discreet.”

“Discreet? About what? It's not like we're going to go at it under the table while they carve the turkey.” Andrew laughed a little, and heartened, Sid went on. “I admit, it doesn't exactly sound like a fun time. But it's only for part of one day. And I'd get to see you. I _want_ to see you.” And then Sid got a flash of inspiration. “And this way, I get to come to you. You'd have the home ice advantage.”

“Oh well, then.” Amusement radiated out of Andrew's tone. “Since you put it that way. All right, Sidney: you seem determined, so I'm not going to argue with you. Especially considering the fact that I'd like to see as much of you as I can. But . . . and this is a big but: I have to ask Dad. It's his family, after all.”

Sid could agree to that. “Of course; it's only polite.”

“Fine; I'll call him first thing tomorrow. Oh, and you do realize, it's one of the busiest travel times in the entire year; you might not be able to get a flight.”

“If I can't, I can't. But at least I would've tried.”

Andrew drew Sid closer. “You're a very sweet man, Captain Crosby.”

Sid could feel himself flush with pleasure, as well as a little embarrassment; he was glad the room was dark.

“Sing me something happy, Sasha.”

 


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to everybody who's ever dreaded holiday dinners with the entire (extended) family.

When Sid stumbled off the plane in Boston—he'd gone directly to the airport from Consol, and Simon had told him he was lucky to get a ticket at all—he thanked God he didn't have to fly commercial very often. Struck by the deep wisdom in that thought, he repeated it to Andrew, who, despite Sid's protests that he could easily take a taxi, was waiting for him in the baggage claim area.

“You look dead on your feet, Sidney,” Andrew said, giving him a bro-hug suitable for public consumption. “Come on; there's about five phones aimed in your direction.” He grabbed Sid's duffle, and once they'd retrieved the rest of his luggage, led the way outside. Where there was a driver waiting for them.

“Don't you ever take regular cabs?” Sid asked, when they were settled in the car.

“Of course I do. But Mom and Dad insisted. Dad is still so touched that you're willing to brave meeting his family.”

“I'm sure it won't be as bad as you're predicting, Sasha.”

Andrew gave him a wry look. “Would you be willing to make a small wager on that? You've never even met them, and I've been doing this all my life.”

“Sure. What'll we bet?”

“We can decide on the stakes later; I'm not going to take advantage of somebody in your condition.”

In his best monotone, Sid said, “Well, that's too bad,” and was rewarded when Andrew burst out laughing.

“Besides,” Sid added in his normal voice, “You know I'm perfectly capable of ignoring almost anything.”

“Really?” Andrew asked innocently, so Sid braced himself. “I suppose that 'almost anything' doesn't include Claude Giroux, then.”

Sid bared his teeth and growled at Andrew, who, predictably, laughed even harder this time.

After thanking the driver—Andrew did it by name, but Sid missed it—Sid followed Andrew into his building.

“Sit down and have a drink. Beer? Wine?”

“Beer sounds good,” Sid decided. “Maybe wine with dinner.”

“Dinner? Who said anything about dinner?”

Sid rolled his eyes. “Don't even try, Andrew. I'm onto you.”

“Well. I can see the mystery's already gone out of this relationship.”

“Uh, there's no mystery about how much you like watching me eat food you've made. And for the record, as you like to say, there never has been. Plus, I can smell something cooking.”

“Busted.” Andrew put an opened beer down in front of Sid. “Drink up. I took a chance that there wouldn't be any unexpected delays, and started stuff in the oven.” He walked over and peered inside. “Looking good.” Putting on pot holders, he pulled out a baking dish, and then turned it around and put it back inside—all before Sid could stand up and see what was in it.

“That smells really good. What is it?”

“Potatoes. To celebrate your visit—and to reward you for that inconvenient flight—tonight's dinner is on no nutrition plan whatsoever. Unless there's a nutrition plan called 'how to have a heart attack.'”

“Sounds delicious.”

“Well, I hope so.” Andrew shrugged as he poured himself a glass of wine. “It maybe doesn't make a lot of sense to have a meal like this the night before Thanksgiving, but . . . well, to be frank, I have a lot more to be thankful for tonight, so we're going with that.”

Sid's stool clattered as he stood up and yanked Andrew into his arms. “You know, this isn't my holiday,” Sid said into Andrew's ear. “But . . . me too.” They stood there, swaying, breathing each other in, for a minute or two. Then Andrew pulled away—reluctantly, if Sid was any judge.

“Let me get the rest of dinner done. It'll be quick. Sit down, drink your beer, and entertain me. Tell me about the game tonight; I only managed to see part of it.”

That, Sid could do. He'd recapped the first two periods when Andrew pulled a platter down from the top of the refrigerator, and Sid immediately lost his train of thought.

“Steak? You're cooking me steak?” Sid was thrilled.

“Actually, Sidney, I'm cooking _us_ steak. Steak _au poivre_ , to be precise. You liked the tuna cooked this way, so I took a chance.” He held his hand over the cast iron skillet that had been heating on the stove. “How do you like your steaks cooked?”

“If I say well done, are you going to give me one of your mother's looks?”

“I'll do more than that. Well done? Really?” He bit his lip. “I don't think I know how to cook steak well done. And the pepper would almost certainly burn.” He thought for a second. “Okay. If you want your steak well done, it'll just be seared; that's actually how I was planning to cook it at first, before I decided to get fancy with the potatoes. If you can tolerate it medium rare to medium, then I'll do it with the peppercorns. It's your choice. It's very good meat, so I'm sure it will taste fine either way.”

Sid considered . . . and decided to be adventurous. “Let's do it with the pepper. I really liked the tuna. And that was kind of rare, too.”

“Are you sure, Sidney? I really don't want to serve you something you'll have to choke down.”

“Sasha. I'd like to try it that way. I bet it'll be delicious.” Sid tried to make his tone deadpan. “Besides, I'm sure choking won't be an issue; after all, I've been working on my breath control.”

There was a moment's silence, and then Andrew exploded. Sid couldn't help but laugh some himself, pleased by his joke's reception.

Andrew pulled Sid into a tight embrace. “You know something, _mon oie_?”

“What?”

“Sometimes I really wonder how I survived before I met you. You, my dear man, are a very, very bright spot in my life.”

Sid squeezed him a little tighter. “I know exactly what you mean. It used to be I only felt alive on the ice. It's not that way any more.” He cleared his throat, feeling a little embarrassed. “For sure.”

**********

Sid had to admit, if only to himself, that he was a little hesitant to try the steak. But everything else was so good—he couldn't believe that Andrew had used cream _and_ cheese in the potatoes; he'd actually moaned out loud when he'd taken his first bite—that he bravely cut off a piece and popped it into his mouth.

He chewed—and then his eyes popped wide open. He chewed a little more energetically, and as soon as he'd swallowed, he said, “This is delicious!” And it was, too—even leaving the pepper part aside; he'd never had steak so tender, and certainly not so juicy.

“I'm glad you like it.”

“Oh, I do.” Sid swallowed again, and then looked down at his plate and considered. There was a lot of . . . yeah, he was going to stick with calling it juice. He used his fork to move some of the potatoes into it, and then ate them. He moaned again.

“Fuck. Where did you learn to cook like this?” He applied himself to his plate.

“Well, at home, if you're asking about technique: Dad always cooks steak in a cast iron skillet—if he doesn't grill it. But the potato recipe I got out of a book.” Andrew took another bite, and then wiped his mouth. “I had a meal very much like this in a tiny bistro in Paris when I was, oh, sixteen or so. Mom and Dad were there on business, and they took me with them.” He laughed. “We scandalized the waiter by ordering seconds, and to be honest, if Mom hadn't put her foot down, I bet Dad would have gone for thirds.” Shaking his head, he added, “I really wish I'd inherited his metabolism. If I ate the way he does, I'd look like a caricature of an opera singer. Which is precisely why I _don't_ eat like that. Well, all the time, anyway.” He laughed again, and Sid joined in.

Sid cleared his plate, and then, at Andrew's insistence, finished his steak too. Then, almost too stuffed to move, Sid leaned back in his chair.

“If there's dessert, I don't want to hear about it.” Then he considered. “At least, not right now. And don't start clearing things. Let me digest, and then I'll do it.”

“You worked today, Sidney.” But Andrew didn't get up; he refilled their wine glasses, and then stretched his feet out under the table. Wordlessly, he held his glass up, and Sid returned the gesture.

“Before I forget again, Sasha: I need your advice. I want to do something for Simon. To thank him for arranging your pizza dinner. And for helping me with my plane ticket. Not to mention, helping me deal with the piano rental people. Well, dealing with them for me, if you want the truth.”

Andrew smirked, but only asked, “What'd you have in mind?”

“I don't know. I mean, I hardly know him. And . . . I'm not all that great at buying presents anyway. I was hoping you had an idea.”

“Well, he's very hard to buy for; Dad complains every year around Christmas and his birthday. He likes ties,” gesturing towards his neck, “and he collects mechanical toys. But I have no idea what he already has. Dad would probably know; why don't you ask him tomorrow?”

“I will. And speaking of tomorrow: what's the drill?”

“Well, we'll head over to Mom and Dad's house early. Then we'll drive to Dad's parents' place; it's not that far away, less than half an hour.” He made a face. “And then we'll put up with them for a while. Gorge ourselves, and do the whole Thanksgiving thing. And then escape back to Mom and Dad's. They want us to spend the night there. Is that okay?”

“Sure. I like your parents. A lot.”

“And they like you too. Oh, did you bring your skates?”

“I did. Just like you told me to.”

“Good. My grandparents have a pond on their property. It's pretty good sized, and I'm told it's frozen solid. Naturally, we'll have to test it. . . .”

“Naturally.”

Andrew made a rude gesture. “But we had our first hard frost on Halloween, so it's possible it's safe to skate on. And that'd be great, since it'll get us out of Casa Copley for a while. Of course, it'll be a cast of thousands—what with all the cousins and nieces and nephews—but it could be fun. I like kids.”

“I do too.”

“Plus,” and Andrew's grin was wicked, “I know for a fact that at least a couple of them are hockey fiends. So you'll have a captive audience.”

Sid laughed. “I think I can deal with that. Do they know? I mean, that it's me? Ugh, I mean, that I'm the one who's coming?”

“I have no idea. I think Dad just said they were bringing a guest.”

Which gibed with what Simon had told him. Sid made a mental note to review that e-mail again.

Finishing his wine, he stood up and stretched. “Let me clean up.”

“We'll _both_ do it. And then . . . dessert? I got you some cookies from a little bakery on Charles Street.”

“Maybe.” Sid essayed his version of a leer. “I'd rather eat you, to be honest.”

Andrew rolled his eyes. “Because I'm so sweet?”

“Actually, you are. Positively . . . toothsome. Is that the word?”

“It's definitely _a_ word.” But Andrew looked pleased. Which made Sid happy.

Although as it turned out, Sid was the one who was eaten. Well, devoured.

**********

“You weren't kidding when you said early,” Sid groused as he laced his shoes.

“Stop complaining,” Andrew said, holding out Sid's coat. “I made you some tea. Which you may have on our way to the train. Which we don't want to miss.”

“Train?” Sid felt like whining. “Why aren't we driving? Don't you have somebody who drives you everywhere? And calls you Mr. Andrew?”

“It's a holiday, Sidney. Even drivers like to spend holidays with their families. And I'm ignoring that Mr. Andrew remark. Come on.” Shouldering their duffles, Andrew dragged Sid out the door.

Once they were on the street, Sid shivered. “Why is it so cold?”

“Because it's Boston in late November.” The “Duh!” that Andrew didn't say was evident on his face. “And I thought you were impervious to cold. Captain Penguin. Here.” Sid gratefully accepted the travel thermos Andrew shoved at him, and took a tentative sip. A bit too hot, but drinkable.

“I wish I'd brought a hat.”

Andrew gave Sid an appraising glance. “Well, it doesn't exactly go with your nice topcoat, but. . . .” He reached into a side pocket of his duffle, and pulled out. . . .

“A Pens hat!” Sid grinned widely as he took it and put it on. “Where'd you get this?”

“I stole it from your bureau,” Andrew admitted unblushingly.

“You criminal, you,” Sid teased.

“Yep. On stage, I'm Andrew Singleton, _tenore di grazia_. But secretly, I'm Alex Copley, felon at large.” He waggled his eyebrows, and Sid had to laugh.

“Where do we get the train?” he asked, feeling a little more in charity with the world.

“At North Station, of course.”

Sid gave him an uncomprehending look. “Am I supposed to know what that is?”

“Uh, yes, you are. Considering that Boston Garden is built over the station.”

“When I'm there, I play hockey, Andrew. I don't go for train rides. And it hasn't been called Boston Garden,” Sid stressed the 'r' in Garden, just because he felt like it, “in years.”

“It'll always be Boston Garden to me.” They turned onto Staniford Street, and Andrew said, “Be prepared, Sidney: it's always a wind tunnel down here.”

“I'll be fine, now that I have my hat. My Pens hat.”

Andrew gave him an unimpressed look. “It's a good thing it's so early. We're unlikely to encounter any homicidal Bruins fans.”

They crossed Causeway Street, and Sid had to admit, the wind was pretty fierce.

“You remember that first breakfast we had? Where I admitted that I only knew of one important hockey moment?”

“I do.” Vividly.

“Well, there's the statue version of it up ahead.”

Sid made a face, and Andrew laughed.

“I _know_! Isn't it the most hideous thing? If I were Bobby Orr, I'd pay the city to take it down. He looks like he's just been goosed by a cattle prod.”

Sid let loose with his real laugh, which echoed through the mostly empty streets.

“Speaking of geese,” Andrew said, laughing himself.

Just then, a car made an illegal u-turn and pulled over. The side window went down, and a man poked his head out.

“Crosby?” The tone of voice was almost incredulous.

Sid peered over. “Marchand,” he said, pleasantly enough.

“What do you think you're doing, defiling my city wearing that hat?”

“Uh, keeping my ears warm.” And then, deciding that a chirp was in order, Sid added, “And trying to beautify this city. They got the colors almost right, but the design needs work.”

Marchand opened his mouth, but Andrew, who was probably straining something by not rolling his eyes, got in first.

“Sid, why don't you talk with your friend, and I'll go get the tickets. The train leaves in five minutes.” Waving at—well, semi-saluting—Marchand, Andrew walked briskly towards the entrance.

“Seriously, Sid: what brings you to Boston?” Brad's eyes swung to Andrew's retreating form, before moving back to Sid.

Sid sighed inwardly. “I'm spending American Thanksgiving with Daniel and Elisabeth Copley.”

Brad's eyes went wide. “Is that right? You know, I heard a rumor the other day that he's thinking of buying a team. Or even starting a team, if the league goes ahead with that expansion.”

Both he and Sid made a face.

“I don't know anything about that,” Sid said honestly. “At all. Daniel and Elisabeth are friends. Mario introduced them to me.” He left it at that. And it seemed to be enough. Which was nice. Especially since it was true.

“Well, have a good time. Hey, make sure you get him to show you his game room; the Globe did a piece on it a year or so ago.”

“I will. Have a good American holiday, Brad. Enjoy the time off.”

“You too, Sid.” Brad rolled up his window, made another illegal u-turn, and headed towards the waterfront. Heaving a sigh of relief, Sid walked quickly into the station. Where he saw Andrew moving away from the ticket window.

He waved, and they headed towards each other. The first thing he said when they met up was, “Sid? Not Sidney?”

Andrew grinned. “Camouflage. Everybody calls you Sid. If I call you Sid too, then I don't stand out. Come on: the train's about to leave.”

Sid thought about what Andrew had said as they walked down the platform. Once they'd settled in their seats, he brought it up again.

“Not that I disagree. About the name thing, I mean. But . . . wouldn't the opposite be true too? I mean, if everybody calls me Sid, and you call me Sidney, then yeah, I guess you stand out, but couldn't that just mean you don't know me well enough to know what everybody calls me? If that made any sense.”

“It did.” Andrew thought for a minute. “And you may be right; no, actually, you probably are right. I never looked at it from that angle.”

Sid felt a burst of pride. Then Andrew grinned—his kind of evil grin—and leaned closer. “Admit it, Sidney. You're getting into all of this plotting, and subterfuge, and hiding in plain sight. Aren't you?”

The only thing Sid would admit to was, “It's interesting.” But he could tell he was flushing, which gave him away.

**********

The train ride was pleasant enough; there were hardly any people on it, and after the first few stops, there was actual scenery, which Sid looked out at as he finished his tea. Well, looked at when he and Andrew weren't talking.

When they reached a station called Kendal Green, Andrew took out his phone and sent a text.

“We'll be at our stop in about twelve minutes; I'm just letting Mom and Dad know. They'll pick us up at the station.”

Sid nodded. Then he asked one of the questions he'd been thinking about for a few days.

“Andrew: you don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but why is your Dad's family so . . . difficult? Is that the right word?”

“I guess. It's as good a word as any, I suppose.” Andrew laughed mirthlessly. “Sidney, I'm perfectly happy to answer your question. But there's no easy answer. Or at least: there's no one thing I could point to. A lot of it has to do with Dad's money. Which is truly absurd, because the whole family is loaded. But Dad has much, much more. And he made it himself, from his inventions. Anyway, that's one thing. Another is: they don't approve of Mom. Who comes from a family almost as old and snooty as their own. Except that Mom's father was the black sheep of his family. Imagine: going to MIT instead of Harvard. Becoming a pilot during the war, instead of an Army officer. And worst of all, marrying a Russian girl that you loved instead of some debutante who bored you.” Andrew shook his head. “ _Dedushka_ Alex did all of those things. And told his family to fuck off. And then he made a small fortune. In what we would now call chemical engineering. And his Russian wife helped him turn that fortune into a _real_ fortune, through the simple process of not being so hide-bound as to be unwilling to diversify. To try something new.

“So when _Dedushka_ Alex—and, of course, _Babushka_ Svetlana, too—heard about Dad, they made it their business to meet him. And by all reports, _Dedushka_ Alex didn't see what most of Dad's family did: an awkward, socially backward nerd (well, what _we_ would call a nerd; I have no idea what the term was then). Instead, he saw a kindred spirit. So he welcomed Dad with open arms: first, into his company, and eventually, into his family. And Dad thrived—in both arenas. But no matter how well he did, or does, his parents and his brothers act like he's a failure. Not a Copley. Not a real man.” Andrew's snort sounded like all the derision in the world wrapped up into one unlovely sound. Come to think of it, Sid thought that might be the most unmusical noise he'd ever heard Andrew make.

“They sound . . . unpleasant,” he said at last.

“That, _mon oie_ , is an understatement. Still: they're his family.” And Andrew made a gesture with his hand, that Sid had no problem interpreting. He simply nodded, because, after all, there was no good answer to the question, “What are you going to do?”

“And I have to admit: they're not all bad. They're surprisingly good on social issues. My grandfather in particular stomps on the slightest hint of homophobia, and according to Dad, he's always been that way. My great-grandfather even supported women's suffrage. Believe me, I don't mean to totally demonize them. But still: I can't help but hate them sometimes, for the way they treat Dad.”

Right then and there, Sid made a promise to himself. If he had the chance, he was going to stick up for Daniel that afternoon. And Elisabeth, too, but mostly Daniel. Because, really, what Simon had told him was different from what Andrew had said—but every bit as bad. He reminded himself that he really needed to review Simon's e-mail before he met Daniel's parents; that made him smirk a little inside: he guessed the information he'd gotten from Simon could qualify as game tape.

**********

As the train pulled into the station, Sid stooped and looked out of the window—and saw Daniel standing by a car, waiting for them. He nudged Andrew, who was picking up his bag: “Your dad is here.”

“Just Dad?” Andrew looked a little surprised.

They stepped out of the train—and were immediately greeted with a shouted, “Boys!” Sid grinned and waved. He followed Andrew over, where Daniel gave, first his son, and then Sid, enthusiastic hugs—and a kiss on their cheeks that made Sid flush a little with pleasure.

“Welcome!” Daniel said.

“Thanks for picking us up, Dad,” Andrew said. Turning to Sid, he said with a grin, “You should be honored. Dad hates to drive.”

“Don't exaggerate, Sasha,” Daniel said, opening the trunk. “I don't hate to drive. I just hate the fact that other people choose to drive at the same time I do.” The look of disgust on his face made Sid laugh.

It didn't take all that long to get to Andrew's parents' house—which was not exactly what Sid had expected. Not that he'd spent a lot of time thinking about it, but he supposed he'd imagined they'd live in a place like Mario's, or something even more imposing. Instead, Daniel turned into a long driveway, and drove up to . . . well, it was pretty large, but it looked like a farm house. And there was a barn, too—although as Sid got out of the car, he noticed that the barn had an addition on it, with two garage doors. He turned and studied the house.

“What do you think, Sidney?” Andrew asked, as he took their bags out.

“I like it,” Sid decided. “It looks . . . nice. Uh, welcoming. So . . . I guess it fits its owners pretty well, then.”

“Why, thank you, Sidney,” Daniel said, beaming. “We like it.”

“We do,” Andrew seconded, after giving Sid his private smile, with its full complement of eye crinkles.

“Well, let's not stand outside in the chill. Inside, boys. Breakfast!”

Just then, they heard the noise of an engine: a delivery van was coming out of the driveway.

“Oh, good,” Sid said. “This is for me. Go on inside; I'll be there in a minute.”

He could see Andrew and his father exchange glances, but Sid ignored them and walked over to the van.

“Crosby?” the driver asked. Then recognition crossed his face. “Yeah, I guess it is.”

“Good morning,” Sid said politely. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“You too. Two arrangements, right?”

“That's right.”

The driver opened the back of the van, and Sid glanced around. He hadn't really expected the other two men to leave, but he also hadn't anticipated Elisabeth joining them. Well, he could improvise.

He leaned towards the driver. “Could you please give me the roses first?”

“Sure thing.”

Sid accepted the vase, and turned towards the others. Holding out the flowers, he said, “Happy Thanksgiving. These are for you.”

“Why, thank you, Sidney.” Elisabeth's face lit up as she took the vase. “Oh, these are beautiful. What a lovely color!”

They were even prettier in real life than in the picture: kind of a silvery purple. He'd thought they looked . . . elegant.

Sid turned back to the driver, who was leaning into the van, and remembering, took out his wallet and pulled out a twenty. He moved a little closer, trying to block the view—but both Andrew and Daniel seemed to be admiring the roses, so that was good.

The driver glanced quizzically at Sid. “This is the other one, right?”

Sid took one look, and had to bite his lip. “That's it.” He handed the tip to the driver. “Could you . . . uh, turn it around? So when . . . so it'll face front?”

“Sure thing.”

Sid thanked him again as he hefted the arrangement. Taking a deep breath, he said over his shoulder, “And this is to bring to Thanksgiving dinner.”

He turned all of the way around, and watched as all three Copleys' jaws dropped. Based on the picture, Sid had thought that the best part would be the little Mayflower moored on one side, but in person, the Pilgrims were better. The male Pilgrim looked . . . well, shit-faced.

The female Pilgrim looked lobotomized.

Sid met the Copleys' stunned gazes with a wide smile.

“Andrew said his grandparents were really into Thanksgiving. This seemed . . . appropriate.”

Sid had read the phrase 'whooping with laughter' before, but he didn't think he'd ever known that noise actually existed. He hoped the gravel on the driveway didn't ruin anybody's suit.

**********

After breakfast, which was delicious as well as fun, everybody got ready to leave. Sid carefully picked up the arrangement and turned to find Elisabeth standing in the doorway. Gazing at it, her lips twitched; “You know, Sidney: for the first time in years, I'm looking forward to this holiday gathering.” She stood on her toes, and brushed a kiss on Sid's cheek. Which felt really nice. Almost as nice as the fervent hug Daniel had given him before they'd walked inside the house. Of course, Andrew's whispered “ _Mon oie,_ you are a _treasure_!” was the actual game winner.

**********

Daniel's parents both were and were not a surprise to Sid. Were, because although he figured they both had to be in their eighties, they both moved as if they were much younger. They probably played a lot of golf, Sid thought, which was also probably responsible for their very leathery skin, still overly tanned even at the end of November. Were not, because they both treated their youngest son with casual disdain. Elisabeth was almost totally ignored; only Andrew was greeted with what seemed to be genuine pleasure—which he responded to with scrupulous politeness and rigid formality.

Sid's presence caused a bit of a stir. Daniel had introduced him simply as “our guest, Sidney Crosby.” Clearly, Mrs. Copley had no idea who he was, but Mr. Copley certainly did. Giving his son a surprised look—faintly tinged with what might have been a distant relative (by marriage) of approbation—he straightened his cardigan before extending his hand to welcome Sid.

Sid smiled as he said hello—and held out the floral arrangement. “Thank you for having me.”

Both of Daniel's parents made a fuss over the arrangement—they seemed to genuinely like it, which, okay, maybe even Simon hadn't been scathing enough in his analysis—and then Mr. Copley handed it off to his wife. Holding his arm out, he said, “Let me introduce you to the family.”

No. Just no. Sid smiled politely. “I'd like very much to meet the rest of the family. But I wonder if I might wash my hands first.”

“Of course, of course. Andrew: show him where.”

“I'd be happy to, Grandfather.”

Andrew was also happy to follow Sid into the bathroom—which, once Sid took in the wallpaper, festooned with men in plus fours playing golf while smoking pipes, made their reaction to the Pilgrims make a lot more sense. Sid looked at Andrew, expecting some scathing comment—but instead, he found himself being yanked into a bruising hug. Not that Sid was about to complain.

When Andrew released him, he said, “Sidney, you are a prince.”

“No, I'm Canadian.”

Andrew ignored him. “You are also fierce.”

“I repeat, I'm Canadian. We believe in being polite.”

Andrew's eyebrows took the slow route up. “And is that what you're being? Polite?”

“Of course,” Sid said blandly. “Canadians are perfectly capable of telling people to go fuck themselves. We simply say 'please' and 'thank you,' too.”

Andrew let out a gurgle of amusement, and hugged Sid again. “I'd better go.”

“Do you have to?”

Andrew laughed again. “Yes, I suppose I do. Grandfather will be looking for you. So wash your hands, or whatever.” He leaned a little closer. “But don't be surprised if I pull you back in here later.”

“I look forward to it.” And he did. But first, he had a few more face-offs to win.

**********

Sid hadn't been at Daniel's parents house for an hour before he determined that all of the adult guests fell into two basic categories—those who liked the Pilgrim flower arrangement (or, as Andrew had referred to it in the car, the “Mayflower Monstrosity”), and those who thought it was absolutely hideous—and that there was a strong correlation between those two groups and whether or not Andrew and his parents (and Sid, for that matter) liked them. The kids—of whom there were a lot, but certainly not the twelve thousand Andrew had warned of—mostly ignored it, but there was one of indeterminate age—and, actually, indeterminate sex, although Sid had to admit that maybe it was just him—who pointed at Mrs. Pilgrim and said, “Oh, Grams, she looks just like you!”

Mrs. Copley had beamed, and had said, “Why, thank you, child!” and it was only by practically chewing off the inside of his cheek that Sid hadn't embarrassed himself.

Sid took advantage of some boring story Mr. Copley was telling him to take stock. Daniel's brothers were all assholes, and their wives were, to a one, non-entities and virtually indistinguishable from one another. All of them liked the flowers. And all of them ignored Daniel. Daniel's sisters, on the other hand, hugged and kissed both Daniel and Elisabeth, and instantly endeared themselves to Sid by essentially ignoring their other brothers. Of course, the appalled stares they levied on the flowers didn't hurt. One of their husbands took one look at the flowers and immediately covered his mouth with his hand, but Sid could tell he was trying to hold in his laughter. Somehow, Sid wasn't surprised to find out that he was Uncle Phil—but he _was_ a little surprised by the penetrating assessment he made of Sid when they were introduced—and by the knowing smile he wore as they exchanged pleasantries.

Andrew had too many cousins for Sid to track properly; the only one who stood out was Gordon, who was, as Andrew had once said, a douche. He was also a Bruins fan, which, okay, Sid could deal with, since he was in Massachusetts, and he could even deal with Gordon going on about the last game he'd seen. Unfortunately, the Bruins had been playing the Flyers, and somehow, Sid wasn't even a little bit surprised when Gordon expressed admiration for Claude Giroux. It was somewhat grudging, true, but seemingly genuine.

Gordon, Sid decided, was a waste of biological matter, and needed to be deprived of oxygen at the earliest opportunity. Since he didn't think he could arrange for a Zamboni accident. Although . . . maybe he could check with Simon, who seemed infinitely resourceful. That thought cheered him enough that he was able to actually pay attention again. Briefly.

When Daniel's father finally finished his story, Sid cleared his throat.

“I'm told you have a pond that's in good shape for skating. Maybe I could take some of the kids out there?”

This question caused an immediate riot among the younger cousins, nieces, and nephews, with the most interesting reaction coming from a group of three teenage boys. All of their faces lit up when they heard Sid, but then one of them immediately shut down, and ignored the others as they tried to pull him along with them. Sid wondered what that was all about—and when he noticed the worried looks Uncle Phil and his wife (whose name Sid didn't remember) were giving that kid, Sid decided to find out.

He walked over and said, “Hey. I'm Sid.”

“Hi,” the kid said, stammering a little. “I'm Eli.”

Sid put his hand out. “Good to meet you, Eli.” He had a solid grip, Sid thought. “So: do you play hockey?”

Eli's face went blank. “I used to.”

Okay, so Sid knew there was a story there. And that asking would be a big waste of time.

“Well, if you know the game: you want to help me out? Maybe coach a few drills? I could really use another assistant.”

Eli looked searchingly at Sid. “Are you serious?”

Sid nodded. “I am.”

Eli's brows lowered. “Another assistant? Who else is helping you?” He glanced quickly across the room, and Sid looked too—and almost choked when he realized that Eli must have been looking at Gordon.

“Uh, I was going to ask Andrew.”

Eli's face cleared and he grinned. “You're going to ask someone who hasn't been on skates in years to help you?”

Sid shrugged. “He's smart. He can improvise. I'm sure he won't mind that I . . . volunteered him.” Which was a total lie.

Eli laughed—and it sounded carefree. “You haven't even asked him yet, have you? I can't wait to see his face. Hey, Cousin Andrew!”

Summoned, Andrew walked over. “Eli! Where have you been hiding?” Andrew pulled him up into a hug, and then swung him around—and, once again, Sid was impressed at how strong Andrew was; he might only be thirteen or so, but Eli was no lightweight. “What can I do for you?”

“Did you know Si- uh, Mr. Crosby wants you to help him coach the kids on the ice?”

Cue the eyebrows. Sid smothered a laugh.

“No, Eli, I most definitely did not know that.” Andrew gave Sid a frosty stare that made him bite his lip. Since it was also pretty hot. “Are you sure that's a good idea, Sidney?”

“Oh, I'm sure,” Sid managed to say.

“I honestly don't think I'm a good choice,” Andrew said. “There must be somebody else more . . . suitable.” And Sid could tell from his tone that Andrew was playing with him. Fortunately, Eli could not, because he lowered his voice.

“Oh, come on, Andrew. You know if you won't do it, Gordon will butt in. And if you do do it, then he won't even come watch.” He paused, and then clasped his hands together. “'Help us, Obi-Wan Kenobi: you're our only hope!'”

Both Sid and Andrew burst out laughing.

“Okay, fine,” Andrew said. “But I'll probably be terrible.”

“Great!” Sid was still smiling. “Let's get ready.”

Eli's face fell. “I don't have my skates with me.”

Uncle Phil, who had been eavesdropping on the entire exchange, cleared his throat. “I'm pretty sure your skates are in the trunk.” He pulled out his keys. “Why don't you go check?”

“Okay.”

“I'll go with you, Eli; our skates are in Dad's car.”

As soon as they left the room, Uncle Phil turned to Sid.

“Thanks for talking him into going out there. He's been hockey crazy for years—even talked about wanting to go pro—and then all of a sudden: he stopped. He won't talk to me or Sarah about it, he won't talk to his coach about it, and so far as I know, he hasn't talked to anybody about it.” He tilted his head and studied Sid again. “Maybe you'll have some insights. And maybe you'll share them.”

“Uh, maybe. But I should tell you . . . I'm not the best person to ask for insights from. You should maybe ask Andrew.”

“Maybe I will.” Uncle Phil hesitated, and then a ghost of a smile crossed his lips. “Here's a question just for you, though. Did you pick out the flowers you brought yourself? Specifically to bring here?”

Sid didn't see any harm in answering. “Uh, yeah. I did. To both things.”

“Then I don't think you're telling the truth when you say you're not insightful.” And he grinned at Sid before walking away.

Sid stared at him for a few seconds, and then shrugged. The ice was waiting.

**********

Sid had a blast with the kids on the ice. They certainly couldn't play seriously, with almost no gear and a truly wide range of abilities, but there were enough sticks that everybody who wanted to could take a turn at “training camp.” Andrew took the ones who only wanted to skate, Sid assigned the players with little or no experience to Eli, and he took the rest.

It was immediately apparent that Eli knew what he was doing. So when Eli had a couple of drop outs (or defectors to Andrew's “team”), Sid merged their groups together, and used Eli for show and tell. Eli complied with every request, and was clearly having the time of his life.

Sid was . . . impressed. Eli had an abundance of natural talent, and had obviously worked hard at honing that into skill. But what Sid found most telling was that Eli seemed to drink up being on the ice: the longer he spent on it, the more alive he seemed to be.

Sid was, of course, completely familiar with that condition. And he wondered what, if anything, he could do. Or should do.

Just then, Andrew skated over to him.

“We should wrap this up soon, Sidney. Dinner's in less than an hour—assuming my grandparents are keeping to their usual schedule, and since they haven't changed it in all the years I've been alive, I doubt they're about to start.”

“Okay. How about . . . fifteen minutes? We'll play a little keepaway.”

“Fifteen minutes is fine; even thirty should be okay. But no more than that. And who's we?”

“Anyone who wants to.” And then Sid had a thought. “Could you . . . uh, do something? Make teams, maybe. Your team against my team. But . . . make sure Eli's on my team? Even if he doesn't want to play.”

The expression on Andrew's face was quizzical, but all he said was, “I'll do my best.” He spun around—Sid wondered if he'd been able to practice; he seemed much more confident—and got everybody's attention by the simple expedient of opening his mouth and . . . yodeling? Sid burst out laughing, and he wasn't the only one; clearly, Andrew was a favorite with this crowd.

“Do you do that on stage, Uncle Andrew?” one of the youngest girls shouted.

“I haven't yet, Kimmie, but who knows.” Then, with a sly glance at Sid, he said, “Want to hear the strangest noise ever sung in an opera? Well, an opera rehearsal, anyway?” And to great acclaim, he uttered the call of the Canadian hockey goose, Italian opera style. Which made Sid echo him. Loudly. And that made everybody laugh even harder.

“Anyway.” Andrew's voice carried effortlessly over the ice. “It's almost time for lunch, so we're going to wrap up here. Sidney wants to play a little keepaway, which is just what it sounds like. But you know what? I think we have to make it tough for him.”

Everybody cheered.

“So we're going to divide up into teams. Sidney, you're one team. Everybody else: you're on my team.”

“Hey!” Sid used his on-the-ice voice to be heard over the others. “That's not fair, Andrew. Give me a little help, at least.”

Andrew pretended to consider. “Okay. We'll give Sidney one other person. And just to prove how fair I can be: which one of you is the best?”

“Eli!” Sid noted that pretty much everybody joined in, including every other teenage boy there—and they were the loudest. Eli looked torn, but before he could say anything, Sid skated over and grinned at him.

“What do you say, Eli? You ready to help me? You and me against,” and he paused, and then said, “ _all_ of Team Andrew?”

There was no way Eli was going to resist that challenge.

“Sure!” he said, grinning as widely as Sid. Sid clapped him on the shoulder.

“Well, then.” Andrew clapped his hands. “Sidney and Eli: you wait over there. The rest of you: over here. I have strategy! I have tactics! I have a plan!”

Everybody on his team circled around him and he started talking. Sid shook his head.

“I have no idea what he's going to do, but I bet it'll be funny,” he said to Eli. “And sneaky too.”

Eli laughed. “Cousin Andrew's the best.”

Which, of course, Sid could agree with. But which, also of course, made him laugh.

“You sound just like Geno,” he told Eli. “I'm pretty sure I've heard him say the exact same thing. Well. Without the cousin.”

Eli's eyes went wide. “Andrew's met Geno Malkin too?”

“He has. He's met everybody on my team—a bunch of times, actually. And . . . he's met Alex Ovechkin too: just last week.” Sid was very proud of the fact that he managed to say that without a sneer. Or a grimace. “And this morning, on our way to the train station, Brad Marchand stopped his car to say hello.” Sid decided to be scrupulously honest. “Although, Andrew had to run buy the train tickets, so I didn't get a chance to introduce them.”

“Wow.” Eli glanced over at his cousin, clearly impressed. Or, more impressed, Sid supposed. Eli opened his mouth, but then Andrew clapped his hands again.

“All right, everybody! May I have your attention please!” Gradually, all the giggling from his team stopped. Well, mostly. Every single one of them wore a wide grin. And the older they were, the more evil the grin was. “We will now assume attack formation!” And everybody moved into two lines, to the left and right of their “captain.”

“What the fuck is he up to?” Sid muttered. Then: “Uh, sorry.” Which made Eli laugh.

“We are gathered today,” Andrew announced grandly, “to witness the annihilation of Wizard Sidney and his apprentice Eli, by these brave forces assembled here.”

His side cheered.

Wizard? Sid assumed his most bored expression.

“Does he ever stop talking?” he asked Eli. Loudly. “We could be halfway to . . . uh, Penguin Land by now.”

“Penguin Land?” Andrew repeated. He seemed absolutely delighted. “We'll welcome you to Penguin Land, won't we, team?” And when the cheers faded, Andrew threw his head back, and his voice, now sounding vaguely female, soared over the ice: “'Half of you go this way; half of you go that way! Now fly! Fly!'” And as he cackled maniacally, his team swarmed across the pond, and Sid prepared to battle not only them, but also the memory of how very, very much he'd always been afraid of the Wicked Witch of the West.

**********

“You,” Sid said accusingly, “are a cheating cheater who cheats.” That he was panting heavily did nothing to detract from the sincerity of his tone.

Andrew, on the other hand, made absolutely no attempt at feigning sincerity—or innocence. “I have no idea what you're talking about, Sidney,” Andrew said. “You won, didn't you?”

Sid let out a sound that from a lesser man would have to be called a squawk. “You call that a win?”

“Well, yes, I do. You and Eli had control of the puck the greater percentage of the time. I may not be a professional athlete, but I can count. Therefore, you won. Against greater numbers. Not to mention superior tactics.”

“Su- superior!” Sid spluttered. He'd really only been teasing Andrew, but that was going too far. “You call imitating a movie character superior tactics?”

“I do if it works. Which it did.” The smile Andrew favored Sid with was unfazed. “Think of it as chirping _à_ _la_ MGM. A dish much beloved in Munchkin Land. Perhaps it will catch on in Penguin Land; I understand the cuisine there is in great need of improvement.”

Sid had to laugh. “You're as fruity as a nutcake.”

“Why, thank you, Sidney; I'll accept that compliment in the spirit with which it was offered. Now, get up off the ice, and let's go get ready for dinner. We should have just enough time to clean up.”

Sid looked around; Eli was gathering up the sticks and pucks.

“You go on. I should help Eli.”

“Fine. But don't take too long. Grandfather approves of punctuality. As do you, usually.”

“A good athlete always takes care of his equipment,” Sid said sententiously.

Casting a quick glance at Eli, Andrew leaned forward and said softly, “I'd rather you let me take care of your equipment.” His look . . . smoldered. And promised.

“Hold that thought.” He held out his hand, and Andrew pulled him up. Once Sid was on his feet, Andrew let go—but not before giving his hand a squeeze.

“See you soon, Sidney.” And with that, Andrew headed off the pond, and Sid made his way over to Eli.

“Have a good time?” he asked.

“It was great, Mr. Crosby.”

Sid let a pained look cross his face. “Sid. Please, Eli. Sid.”

“Well . . . okay, Sid.” Eli looked like Sid had just handed him the Cup. “I don't think my parents would approve, though.”

“I don't really care,” Sid said honestly. “If they're upset, tell them I asked you specifically.”

Eli nodded. And Sid decided, now or never.

“You know, your dad told me that you gave up hockey this year. And wouldn't tell anyone why.”

Eli's face closed down instantly. “I bet he wants you to try and find out, too.”

“I'm sure he does. He asked me to think about sharing any insights I might have, anyway.” Sid took a deep breath. “But frankly, I don't really care what your father wants. Part of me doesn't even care what you want. What _I_ want is to tell you: you need to play hockey. You're good, Eli. You might be good enough to go pro. But that almost doesn't matter. What matters is, you need to be on the ice, because the ice is part of you.”

Eli stood stock still, frozen, for a few seconds. And then his face crumpled, and with a wailed “I know!” he launched himself at Sid.

For a split second, Sid wondered if he should be uncomfortable, but then he realized that this was about hockey. Besides, he didn't feel uncomfortable, so he wrapped his arms around Eli, and let him cry. He doubted Eli would let himself go for too long, and he was right.

“Gah! I'm sorry,” he said thickly.

“Fuck that,” Sid said pleasantly. Then: “I'm sorry. I don't have a handkerchief. I'm not Andrew.”

That made Eli laugh a little, which, okay, was pretty gross. He expelled most of the snot, and then used his sleeve for the rest.

“I really fucked this up, Sid,” Eli confessed.

“Okay. You want to tell me about it? You totally don't have to. But . . . I might understand. Maybe better than your dad or mom.”

“If you can tell about the ice, then, yeah. It's pretty simple, really. This past year, I figured out that I'm gay. Which, fine. I'm too young to do anything about it, but it's nice to know for sure. But . . . all of a sudden, all the shit that's said on the ice . . . it really started to hurt. And make me feel bad. And mad, too. And I said something a couple of times, and the other guys were like, “oh, yeah, sorry, I know I shouldn't talk like that,” and they stopped. For about ten minutes. And then it was back. So I figured: I don't need this. I don't want to be the thought police, or whatever. And I don't want to be a crusader, either. I'm quiet. Well,” with a lopsided grin, “when I'm not at home. Or on the ice.”

Sid grinned back.

“So I gave up hockey. 'Cause I know that being gay isn't anything to feel bad about, and that you can really mess yourself up by keeping things inside. You know, denying, or whatever. And it just seemed . . . easier, you know? 'Cause being gay is who I am. Hockey is just something that I do.”

This time, his laugh was entirely mirthless. “But what I didn't figure on, and what I've been totally struggling with, is how much I miss playing. I feel . . . kind of dead inside, you know? Knowing the ice is there, but feeling like I can't play on it any more? See, maybe it's stupid, but I really didn't know. How giving it up would feel, I mean. 'Cause I've always had it, so I didn't know what not having it would be like. I knew I loved playing, but I didn't know how much. Until I wasn't anymore. Does that make any sense?”

Sid didn't trust himself to speak, so he just nodded.

“So, here I am. Screwed. And my big plan on feeling good about myself? Total garbage. And Dad and Mom reacted so bad when I told them about hockey . . . they're so _worried_ , that I couldn't even tell them about being gay. At first, I thought I could, 'cause I know they'd be totally fine with it, but then, I figured out that it would take them about five seconds to guess why I gave up hockey. And then?” He made a face. “I don't know what your parents are like, Sid, but mine can be _fierce_. Mom doesn't much take after Grandfather, but she would be down at that school in no time, and nobody would know what hit them. And Dad would be right there with her, quoting studies and research, and insisting everybody role play and talk about their feelings.” He shuddered, and Sid was right there with him.

“So. Any advice? Realistic advice, I mean? 'Cause I'm not naïve enough to think that sports will change any time soon. But _I'm_ not gonna change any time soon, either.”

“Well,” Sid said slowly, “first of all, I have to tell you that I'm impressed. I didn't know what 'naïve' meant when I was your age.”

Eli rolled his eyes, and Sid all of a sudden felt more comfortable.

“I'm also impressed at your logic. Or your insights, maybe. I mean, you're absolutely right. You don't need to be in a situation where you feel bad. It's not good for you. For anyone. But your logic or whatever kind of went haywire when you thought hockey was just something you did. I know you said it already, but it's important, so I'm repeating it. Hockey is not just something you do. Not you. And I know what I'm talking about. Because, not me, either.

“So. My advice, for what it's worth. You need to start playing again. Like, right now. Even if it's not your old team. Even just shooting pucks by yourself. You can't deny yourself that.

“Second. You need to talk to your parents. And you need to tell them everything you told me. Including the part about not wanting to start a crusade.” Thinking about one of Andrew's stories, he added, “You also need to say something else. Maybe remind them that you're their son, and you love them, and you know they love you—but it's your life and your happiness at stake. You tried something, and it didn't exactly work, so can the three of you maybe try and come up with a plan to make things better. It's not always easy to set limits with people, especially parents—but it is possible.” Sometimes. Mostly.

“Does any of that make sense?”

Eli nodded vigorously. “It does. Especially the part about playing again. I started feeling better the minute you talked me into coming down here.”

“Good.” Sid hesitated. “We should probably head back. It's a crime, I guess, to be late for dinner.” Eli snickered. “And it's not polite either. But this is important.” He put his hands on Eli's shoulders and looked him in the eye. “You might be right when you say that sports aren't going to change any time soon. Or, you might be wrong. If only a little.”

He took a deep breath. “What I'm going to tell you is a secret. Okay?”

Eli nodded.

“There are at least five gay players in the NHL today.”

Eli's eyes widened.

“I say at least five, because there are five that I know of. There are probably more that I don't know of.” He took another breath. “There are two gay players on the Pens. They both came out to the team recently. Kind of at the same time. The other guys . . . were surprised. More about one than the other, I guess. But they were all great. As far as I can tell, it's made no difference at all. There's been no bullshit about the shower room or whatever. And . . . after those two guys, another one . . . I guess he's bi? He hook- uh, went home with another guy after a party. Where the whole team could see. And he told me later that he would never have done that, if the two gay guys hadn't come out first. So, that's pretty solid evidence that things can be okay. In certain circumstances.” And then Sid had a thought. “Although, if I'm being honest, I have to tell you that coming out has given the other guys something else to chirp them about.” He rolled his eyes, and Eli laughed. “But there's a big difference between friendly chirping and mean chirping. One you kind of have to put up with. The other kind: well, there are rules now. But . . . well, nothing's perfect.”

“I know. But . . . wow. Two. On your team.” Eli's brow creased. “Can I ask: are they . . . boyfriends?”

Sid choked a little. “Uh, no. Not at all.”

“Oh.” He sounded a little disappointed. Which made Sid curious.

“Why?”

“Why'd I ask? I just wondered, I guess. It'd be, you know, convenient. Plus, you'd always have something to talk about.” He sighed. “But I suppose it'd screw up team dynamics. Too bad.” Then he eyed Sid sideways. “But two hockey players? I bet it'd be smoking!”

Sid really, really hated the fact that he blushed so easily. And that a thirteen-year-old could do it didn't help.

**********

Andrew met them at the door.

“I was about to send out a search party. You've got five minutes to get cleaned up. That shouldn't be a problem for you, Eli, but Sidney takes forever.”

Sid ignored this pathetic attempt at chirping. “Come on, Eli: show me where.” And as Eli led him away, Sid mouthed, “ _Stronzo_.” Much to Andrew's amusement. One of these days, he supposed he should look that up.

Sid was not, in fact, late: everybody was just about to file into the dining room when they got back downstairs. He lingered a little, so he could watch Eli go over to his parents and give each of them a hug. He couldn't hear what Eli said to them, but both parents smiled at him and gave him a squeeze, so Sid figured it was all good. And then Eli walked out of the room.

Sid nudged Andrew—who, of course, had missed none of this. “Where's he going?”

“The children's table. The lucky duck,” he added, in a softer tone.

Sid wondered if throwing a tantrum could earn him a place there too. And then he had a brilliant idea. Leaning close, he whispered, “Sasha. If I pick a fight with you over dinner . . . drag me out of there. But keep us in earshot. Okay?”

“How am I supposed to. . . ?”

“Like you did with the rookie. In the bar,” Sid muttered impatiently. “Okay?”

“Okay.” Andrew took one step, and then stopped. “I honestly have no idea what you're doing. But I've really been enjoying it so far, so: play on, Captain Crosby. And play well.”

Sid smiled broadly as he entered the dining room. There was no way he could play less than his best. Now.

**********

Thanksgiving dinner started off pretty benignly. Mr. Copley droned out a grace that seemed much less a “thank you” than a demand that God acknowledge how lucky He was to have their family as worshippers. But then the food was brought out, and Sid had to admit, Mr. Copley knew how to carve a turkey.

The food was standard Thanksgiving fare, but almost everything Sid tasted was good (at a nudge and a shake of the head from Andrew, Sid passed on one of the bowls of stuffing) and there was even green bean casserole, which had always been a guilty pleasure of Sid's, and which, he was thrilled to notice, had the right proportion of french-fried onions on top—meaning, you could ignore the fact that you were eating a vegetable, since you couldn't see it. So he could honestly compliment Mrs. Copley on the food (although he made a mental note to go into the kitchen later on and thank the person who'd actually done the work).

He knew he wouldn't escape further inquisition, and he was right.

“So, Sid,” the older of Daniel's asshole brothers said, “I don't think you said how you came to be visiting.”

Sid thought about saying, “No, I didn't,” and leaving it at that, but decided to play defensively for a while. Fortunately, he was prepared for this question.

“Well, I've been testing one of Daniel's prototypes for a while now.” He smiled blandly.

“A prototype?” Daniel's father asked. “For what?”

Sid shook his head. “I can't really talk a lot about it,” he said. “There's a reason NDA's exist, you know.” He mentally thanked Simon for that detail. Even as he felt a surge of pride at the admiring looks he was getting from Daniel and Elisabeth.

“Oh, come on, Sid,” asshole brother said, affecting a sense of _bonhomie_ that Sid found particularly nauseating, “we're family. You can tell us.”

Sid shook his head again. “I take contractual issues very seriously,” he said. “I'm sure you can appreciate that, with so many lawyers in the family.”

Brother number two seemed to think that was a compliment. “We lawyers can usually find a little wriggle room in any contract,” he said complacently.

“I'm sure you can,” Sid said. “But since we're talking about my contracts, well, I guess I'll just stick to my own interpretations.” He smiled pleasantly. And as the conversational drift changed, he wondered why no one thought to ask Daniel for any details.

Just then, the woman across from him leaned forward. “I don't think we had a chance to be introduced before dinner. I'm Betsy.”

Sid smiled again, and this time it was genuine. “I'm Sid. It's very nice to meet you,” he said sincerely. He looked around. “Is your wife here too?”

The somewhat neutral expression Betsy had been wearing disappeared, and the woman next to her waved. “I'm Connie.”

Sid smiled again, and they made small talk—very small, in Sid's case, but no one seemed to mind. Uncle Phil was next to Connie, his wife (Sarah, that was it) was next to Sid, and since Andrew's parents were next to Betsy, there was this little haven of pleasantness. For a while. Connie, it seemed, followed hockey a little, which made her only the second adult in the family who seemed to be a fan, and asked Sid a couple of admiring questions about Geno, which Sid was happy to answer. Which led to Elisabeth's making some innocuous remark about Alex Ovechkin. Which, unfortunately, Gordon, sitting further down the table, overheard.

“You know Ovechkin too?”

Elisabeth masked her _moue_ of distaste a lot better than Sid would have been able to.

“We've met,” she said.

Connie seemed impressed (too impressed, if Sid were being honest), and asked where. And Daniel, who had revived slightly during this period of harmony, said, “We had dinner with him and his wife in Washington last weekend.” He was about to add something when Gordon interrupted him.

“So the rumor is true?”

Daniel gave Gordon a baffled look. “What rumor?”

“That you're going to buy a hockey team.”

This statement caused some little consternation, mostly from the asshole contingent, despite Daniel's protest that the rumor was not, in fact, true. And then Daniel's oldest brother asked, in a truly offensive tone, “So, Sid, what would you think if Daniel bought a hockey team?”

Sid looked down at the table and pretended to think. Then he said, “Actually, I don't think one team would be enough for Daniel. I think he should buy the entire league. And then,” he raised his voice to be heard over the outcry, “I think he should give it to Elisabeth to run. I can't think of anyone better suited to keeping thirty teams in line.”

He turned and grinned at them, and swore inwardly at the absurdly grateful look on Daniel's face. So he winked. And Daniel winked back.

“What do you think, Lis?” he asked, looking at his wife. “Would you like that?”

“It's an idea, darling,” she said composedly. “It'd give me something to do while my nails dry.”

The oasis of normalcy around Sid burst out laughing, and Sid noted that Daniel's other sister leaned forward and aimed a “thumbs up” at Elisabeth.

And then Mr. Copley said, “Well, I think it's idiotic.” And a very uncomfortable silence fell over the table. And Sid thought to himself, “That does it.”

He turned to Andrew and said, “Would you please pass me the salt, Andy?”

Andrew stiffened, and the silence around the table changed perceptibly—almost as if everyone were holding their breath. Waiting for a bomb to go off. Which it would, if Sid had anything to do about it.

Slowly, Andrew turned his head. “Excuse me?”

“I asked if you would please pass me the salt.”

“I heard you. What did you call me?”

Sid pretended to think. “Andy.”

Andrew took a deep breath. “I believe I've told you, Sidney, that I prefer to be called Andrew.”

Sid shrugged. “I guess I forgot. Besides, hockey players like nicknames.”

“Well, _I_ do not.” Andrew pushed his chair back. “Perhaps we should do something about that memory of yours.” And Sid clearly heard Gordon mutter, “Oh, shit!” as Andrew, following orders, shoved his hand under Sid's armpit, lifted him out of his chair, and dragged him out of the dining room.

As soon as they'd cleared the door and were out of sight, Andrew stopped, and Sid said, in a voice that was marginally lower but that he knew would still carry, “What the hell is your problem, _Andrew_? It's only a nickname. It's not like I'm sitting in there insulting your parents by treating them like lepers!”

Sid heard some shocked noises from the dining room, but his attention was on Andrew. A variety of emotions flew across his face, far too quickly for Sid to read. Then Andrew said—no, snarled, practically—”You come with me.” He grabbed Sid's arm, frog-marched him down the hall, and pushed him into the bathroom Sid had used before.

Andrew shoved him against the sink and held him there. They were both facing the mirror, but the light wasn't on, and in the dimness, mirror-Andrew's face looked . . . feral.

He leaned closer, and said, very softly, into Sid's ear, “Sidney. You need to be completely silent. You cannot make a single noise. It's _essential_. Can you do that, Sidney? Can you be absolutely quiet?”

Sid swallowed, and without taking his eyes off of mirror-Andrew, he nodded.

And mirror-Andrew smiled. And said, “Good boy.”

And then he whirled Sid around, dropped to his knees, and ripped open Sid's trousers.

When Andrew finished, Sid felt like he'd just spent an entire period on the ice. But he hadn't made a sound.

**********

As they approached the dining room, Sid took a few seconds to make sure his clothes were put together properly, so Andrew went in ahead of him. And Sid heard Elisabeth say, “I hope you didn't damage him too severely, darling.” He grinned, and waited for Andrew's response.

“Oh, he's fine, Mom. Or he will be, once he's caught his breath.”

Sid supposed that was his cue, so he walked in. And really wasn't expecting people to start chuckling. So, without thinking, he checked his fly again. And then the laughter _really_ started.

Sid's face was still kind of red, so maybe the blush wasn't all that noticeable. Still, he could hardly make himself care.

“We seem to be fewer,” Andrew remarked, surveying the table.

“Your grandfather had a sudden migraine,” Uncle Phil said dryly. “Your grandmother is sitting with him.”

His wife added, “And I don't know where my other brothers went.” And didn't care one bit, from her tone.

Well. Sid sat down and looked around. “I seem to have regained my appetite. Are there any more green beans?”

He had no idea why people thought that was funny.

Daniel handed his son a glass of wine. “Here, Sasha. Drink up. I hope you're not getting a sore throat.” He sounded like himself again, and Sid was happy. And he could tell Andrew was too, despite the rolled eyes.

He filled his plate, and started eating, but he noticed Andrew was staring into space.

“Is something wrong?” he asked.

Andrew shook his head. “No. I was just wondering.”

“About what?”

“Whether I needed to apologize to Grandmother.”

“Apologize? For what?”

“For leaving the table without permission.”

Sid choked on an onion, as the rest of the table started roaring.

And then people talked and drank and laughed some more, and the end of the meal, at least, was something to give thanks for.

 


	17. Chapter 17

Sid stood shivering as Geno walked up and down the rows of Christmas trees for the twentieth time. Or so it seemed.

“For fuck's sake, Geno,” he complained, “just pick one.”

“Have to be good one, Sid. Need best tree.” Geno peered at one—one which Sid was certain he'd looked at before—and then dismissed it.

“But why?” Sid was feeling cranky. Not that he minded spending time with Geno. But this was ridiculous. “You hardly ever get a tree. I thought New Year's was the bigger holiday in Russia.”

“It is.” Geno's phone buzzed. After he looked at it, he said, “Maybe Sid right,” and started walking briskly towards the parking area.

Sid's jaw dropped. “That's it?” He trotted after Geno. “After all that, you're not going to get a tree?”

“I not feeling it. Now: time to get ready for Christmas skate.”

Sid looked down at himself. He was wearing decent clothes, and his skates were already at Consol. “What is there to get ready?”

Geno looked at Sid as if he'd lost his mind. “Sid need hot chocolate.”

As appealing as that thought was. . . . “I don't need anything, Geno.”

“You do.” Geno nodded vigorously. “Hot chocolate. Whipped cream. Cinnamon,” he stumbled a bit on the word, “on top. And cookies. I know best place. Sid come.”

“Fine. But no whipped cream.” Sid hoped the cookies were good.

**********

Sid always looked forward to the Pens' Christmas skate—well, when it was private, anyway. He really enjoyed tooling around with the kids, and although he would never admit it, he got a real kick out of watching his teammates shepherding their tiny children on the ice. Less enjoyable, but still manageable, was having to deal with the dates the single guys brought. Usually, he could tell if one was going to stick around for a while, and if not, he really didn't have to do anything more than smile politely and remember her name for an hour. Which he could usually manage.

This year, though, he was having a little trouble dealing with it. Because he really wanted Andrew there. And Andrew was in Houston. Working.

“They don't even have a hockey team there,” he muttered.

“Who doesn't?” Nealer asked him.

“Houston.”

Sid didn't need to add anything else, since the whole team was well aware of where Andrew was. Not that Sid complained about it all that often. Or hardly at all, really: just once in a while. Mostly.

He tried to shake off his mood. “You bring anyone this year, Nealer?”

He wasn't exactly surprised when Nealer shook his head. “I just wasn't feeling it,” he said, unconsciously echoing Geno.

Sid peered at Nealer a little cautiously. Was he going to. . . ? He and Nealer had an unspoken agreement not to mention anything about the conversation they'd had on the plane. Sitting next to each other. Coming back from Boston. After Thanksgiving. When neither one knew the other was there. For Thanksgiving.

Sid hoped Simon had enjoyed his joke; Andrew certainly had.

Sid shook his head as if to clear it. Enough: he was determined to have a good time today.

More people had started to arrive, and he saw Nathalie and the kids. He skated over to join them, already feeling better.

“Sid, Sid!” Nathalie's youngest beckoned to him. “Did you know there's presents? Big bags, like Santa's!”

Sid attempted to hide his smile. “No, I didn't know.” There were always things for the kids.

Then her older brother chimed in. “Sid, it's different. There's like a hundred boxes, all the same. And. . . .”

A familiar voice broke in. “Merry Christmas, Sidney!”

Sid whirled around so quickly he fell down.

“Daniel! Elisabeth!” He scrambled to his feet, and was immediately enveloped in Daniel's customary hug. And Elisabeth's greeting, although more sedate, was no less genuine. “What are you two doing here?”

“Why, skating, of course,” Elisabeth said, her eyes twinkling. “At the very kind invitation of the Lemieux family.

Sid turned to Nathalie. He was sure his face looked ridiculous, since he couldn't seem to stop grinning, but Nathalie just gave him a fond look. “We asked them that afternoon we all had pizza.” To the Copleys, she said, “I'm so pleased you were able to make it.”

“It's our pleasure, truly.”

A few of the guys had seen them, and had skated over to say hello. Sid took a moment to eye their stances: Daniel had the unconscious balance of a good skater, which didn't surprise him at all. Elisabeth . . . seemed steady, but clearly, she needed to think about what she was doing, which made sense, since Sid now remembered Andrew telling him she preferred skiing.

“They pass inspection?” Geno asked from behind him.

Sid rolled his eyes, and Geno laughed. Hearing him, Elisabeth turned and held out her hands: a spate of Russian ensued. Daniel, meanwhile, was saying something to Nealer. Whose whole face lit up.

“Really?” he asked. And without waiting for an answer, he swerved and skated away.

“You can thank me later, James,” Daniel called out, seemingly _very_ amused. And somehow, Sid wasn't all that surprised when Simon skated into view. Well, wobbled. And practically fell over when Nealer grabbed him. In something that was decidedly not a bro hug.

Sid heard a deep sigh, and knew without looking that it was the rookie. “Guess who's getting laid tonight,” he said to Sid. “Again.”

Sid spared him a glance. “You think they'll wait that long?” he asked curiously.

“Probably not. I wonder if they'd let me watch.”

Sid made a disgusted face, but Daniel started laughing, and Elisabeth remarked, “You might have to take a number, Tommy.” Which set everybody in earshot off: Geno was actually _howling_.

Pasting a smile on his face that he certainly didn't feel, Sid skated back over to the Lemieux kids, trying not to feel jealous. Or resentful. And not succeeding terribly well. But at least he was trying.

He was just about to challenge Nathalie's son to a race, when he heard Nealer call out, “Hey, Ace!”

For the second time in under twenty minutes, Sid fell down. Which made all of the Lemieux—especially Mario, who had joined them— burst out laughing. Because this time he was even more graceless than before.

By the time he'd managed to scuttle to his feet, Andrew had skated over, stopping about ten feet away.

“Having a little trouble, Captain Crosby?” he asked, his voice brimming with amusement.

But he didn't move any closer, and Sid realized that Andrew was waiting for Sid to decide how to play this. And it only took him a second to decide that he didn't really care. He held out his arms, and Andrew skated right into them. He wasn't so far gone that he kissed Andrew—there were too many people he didn't know around for that—but he gave the hug everything he had.

And from the look in Andrew's eyes, it was enough.

**********

After the guys had greeted Andrew—which took a while, but Andrew didn't hurry, and Sid accepted the guys' interest for what it was: a tribute to the fact that they genuinely liked him—Sid finally got a few minutes alone with him.

“Don't take this the wrong way: but aren't you working?”

Andrew laughed. “Not at the moment. I performed last night, and again tomorrow afternoon. So I'll warn you now: this is a very short visit.”

“I'll take what I can get.” But he'd been studying Andrew while he talked to the guys, and even though he knew he was probably being a little tactless, he asked, “Are you getting enough sleep? You look exhausted.”

“I am tired,” Andrew admitted. “ _Il barbiere_ is a long, long opera, and Houston, in its infinite wisdom, is doing it uncut. Which I generally approve of, but they're also doing _all_ of the _secco_ (that's the dialogue), which is madness. And a little boring, if I'm being honest. By the time I got back to my hotel, it was after one. And I had to get up at five. You get the picture.”

Sid was feeling a little guilty. “Not that I'm not happy to see you, Sasha, because of course I am: but you shouldn't have come all this way just for a few hours.”

“It's actually more than a few; I don't leave until tomorrow morning. And I wouldn't have even considered it, frankly, except that Mario was so . . . earnest when he invited me that I was literally unable to say no. And I did say that my coming was contingent on any number of factors, such as the weather.” He shook his head. “If there were even the slightest chance of snow, I'd have bailed. But all the forecasts are clear, so I have to trust that things will go smoothly. I'm scheduled to arrive back in Houston before nine tomorrow morning, and I don't perform until one, so that's plenty of time. I hope. Plus,” he added, “I liked the idea of having a Christmas skate with you. Since we won't see each other over Christmas.”

“Don't remind me. And don't remind me that you're going to London right after that, either.”

“Okay, I won't.” He looked around. “I don't recognize a lot of these people. Who are they all?”

“Front office people, mostly. I think most of the guys introduced you to their dates.”

“I think so. I knew some of them from last time, but some were new.”

“Uh, some are always new. Not that we do things like this all that often, but for some reason, the guys always think it's more pathetic to come to Christmas skate alone, than to any other team function.” He laughed. “Actually, this is the first time I've had a date . . . at anything!”

“Oh, well. Truly an historic occasion!” Andrew teased.

“It is.” And to mark it, Sid grabbed Andrew's hand and squeezed it.

They skated another lap or two, chatting desultorily once in a while. Mostly, Sid enjoyed just having Andrew within touching distance. Which he did at every opportunity: a guiding hand on his shoulder or arm; a gentle nudge, to point out something; a casual brush against his back while making a turn. He stored up each and every one of them. As a consequence, he really wasn't paying much attention to anything else, so he noticed immediately when Andrew flinched.

“What's the matter?”

Andrew grimaced. “It's this music. I don't know if it's the tape or what, but it's a quarter tone off. It's driving me buggy.”

Sid listened. It sounded fine to him, but. . . . “You're the music expert. I can ask them to turn it off.”

Andrew shook his head. “Don't be silly. It's a Christmas party; people expect Christmas music. Besides: this won't last that much longer, will it?”

“I doubt it.” And then Sid grinned. “I know one way to get the music changed into something you'd like.”

“And that would be. . . ?”

“For you to sing some Christmas music.”

Andrew rolled his eyes. Ostentatiously. Unfortunately, Sid's voice had carried, and the two youngest Lemieux kids had heard him. And no doubt remembering Andrew's performance at their house, they immediately rushed over to him and begged him to sing. Mario and Nathalie, alerted by the clamor, came over and tried to quell them, but Andrew stopped them.

“I'd be happy to sing a couple of songs, Mario. Truly. But only if you think everybody would enjoy it. If people would rather keep skating, well, that's fine too.” He smiled down. “I'll sing you both something later on. Maybe not this trip, but next one for sure.”

“It would be better if it was this trip,” Mario's daughter said glumly. And Andrew laughed.

Mario had one of those wordless spousal conversations with Nathalie. Who said, “Are you sure you're willing to do this, Andrew?”

“I wouldn't have offered if I weren't willing,” Andrew said. Which Sid thought was maybe a little bit of an exaggeration, but not exactly a lie. Since he hadn't really offered. But still: any chance to hear Andrew sing. . . .

So Mario sent somebody to kill the music. And got everybody to gather together, and made a brief announcement. Which the guys started cheering at. Which got them a bow from their favorite tenor, before he'd even sung a note. Which made everybody laugh.

When all was calm (and Sid mentally slapped himself before he could add “and bright,” even in his own head), Andrew made a little speech.

“This impromptu concert is brought to you, courtesy of . . . “ and he paused dramatically before naming Mario's kids and waiting while everybody applauded. “I'm going to sing a couple of songs, and then everybody,” and he mock-glared at them, “and I do mean _everybody_ , will sing one. We'll do “Jingle Bells,” since everybody knows that. And then I'll sing what I'm told is Nathalie's favorite carol, to thank her and Mario for hosting us this afternoon.”

And once people had stopped clapping, Andrew began singing “Joy to the World.” Like Sid had never heard it sung before. There were four verses, and each one was a little different than the one before it. More . . . complicated. Sid now knew (because he'd asked) that what Andrew was doing by adding all of the extra notes was called ornamenting the music. Which he guessed was especially appropriate for Christmas carols. He knew Andrew would groan when he heard that, so he made a mental note to remember.

Everybody clapped a lot at the end, and the Lemieux kids jumped up and down and yelled “Bravo!” which everybody got a kick out of, especially Andrew. Mario leaned towards Sid and muttered, “I was going to ask him if he needed a microphone. Good thing I didn't.” It was true: Andrew's voice couldn't fill the rink by itself, of course, but it for sure seemed to.

Then Andrew switched gears and sang “O Come, All Ye Faithful,” which Sid had always liked. First he sang it in Latin, and then in English. He sang it slowly, and it didn't seem to matter that there was no music besides his voice; his voice didn't need anything else.

And then they did the sing-along. Andrew insisted on a trial run, and when it was over, he just looked at them, shook his head, and said, “It's a good thing you've all got hockey.” He then rearranged them a little, and then he said, with a sly look on his face, “You know, I'm not a big fan of public shaming, but one of you didn't sing along in the rehearsal, and his initials are Sidney Patrick Crosby.”

When the heckles had died down, Sid said deliberately, “That is a lie.”

Which earned him an eyebrow. “Are you saying that you did sing along?”

“No,” said Sid, grinning. “I didn't. The lie was that you're not a fan of public shaming.”

“Busted,” Andrew said, amidst the general hilarity. “Okay. Let's do this, you guys.”

And so they did. And Sid even sang along. A little.

Nathalie's favorite Christmas carol turned out to be “O Holy Night,” and there was no other word for the way Andrew sang it: it was captivating. Every single person there just stood in place, not moving, almost not breathing, while he sang. And at the end, there was actually a moment of silence before everybody started clapping.

Andrew bowed again. And this time he was the one who fell down. Which didn't seem to disturb him at all.

**********

And then it was time for presents. And Nathalie's son was right: it was different from other years. Because in addition to the presents from “Team Santa,” there were also presents from Daniel and Elizabeth. Every team member, every family member, every front office worker and every member of _their_ families got one of the music players. Clearly, Simon's organizational skills had been working hard, since every single one was personalized in some way—usually with initials or a monogram. Even some of the dates, whom Sid knew would never be seen again, got one decorated with a Pens logo. And each team player got one embellished with his number. Everybody looked a little stunned, and a few protested, but Sid noticed no one was giving their player back. Everybody tried to thank them, but Daniel and Elisabeth kept insisting that it was nothing.

And then they walked over to Sid. With a differently shaped package.

“Sidney, Sasha said that you probably wouldn't want to trade your player in for one of these.”

Sid had to laugh. “He knows me pretty well. Thanks, but, uh, I think I'll hold on to the one I have.”

Elisabeth smirked at him; there was no other word for it. “Of course you will, Sidney. But you know: it is possible simply to exchange the outer shell for one with your number on it. It would take less than five minutes.” She paused, gauging him. “Let me know if you'd like to do that.”

“I'll think about it,” was as far as Sid was willing to go.

“I told you,” was Andrew's only comment. Elisabeth shook her head.

“In any event, since you already have one of the music players, Daniel made you something else.”

“Here, Sidney,” Daniel handed him the package. “I hope you like it.”

“I'm sure I will,” Sid said honestly. He turned it over and started worrying at the tape. Andrew leaned forward to help and he slapped his hand away.

“Hey! Mine!”

Andrew rolled his eyes. “Well, hurry up already. I am _busting_ to see what this is. They've been all mysterious about it.”

“You don't know?”

Andrew shook his head, and Sid . . . was intrigued. He opened up the paper, took one look. . . . He blinked, and then he started laughing harder than he ever had in his entire life: he was honking like an entire flock of Canadian hockey geese. And he couldn't stop. Every single person in the room was staring at him—except for Daniel, who was too busy looking smug.

“I told you he'd like it,” he crowed. “I told you he'd get it!”

“Sidney!” Andrew projected his voice. Loudly. “What the hell is it?”

Sidney gasped a couple of times, and then gulped. He may have hiccuped once or twice. And then he managed to say, “It's me!” And he turned his gift around to show them.

It was a caricature, mostly in black and gold, of a goose. A goose with Sid's face. Grinning widely. And with wings sticking out of a Pens sweater that had an 87 and his “C” on the front. Clutching a meticulously taped stick in one of its talons, and in the other was . . . Sid's lucky cup.

“Oh my God,” Andrew said. Before he started laughing as hard as Sid had. And most of the Pens joined in; Geno was actually lying on the floor, pummeling it with his hands and feet, as he gasped out odd syllables of Russian hilarity, and Flower wasn't much better off. Every time he started to wind down, he'd double over again, hitting whoever was next to him.

“That is so fucking awesome!” Nealer managed after a while. “Daniel, you _made_ that? You drew it yourself?”

“I did,” Daniel said, proud as anything.

“Isn't it wonderful?” Elisabeth said, sounding equally proud. “Daniel has such . . . insight.” Which set a lot of people off again. Including Sid.

When he'd recovered a little, he walked over to Daniel and hugged him tightly. “Thank you so much!” he said. “I love it!”

Daniel beamed, hugged him back, and then kissed him on the cheek. “I'm glad, Sidney. Merry Christmas!”

“Merry Christmas,” Sid repeated. And then he turned to Elisabeth and hugged her too, repeating his thanks. She smiled at him and said, “You are entirely welcome, Sidney.” Then she drew his head down and kissed him on both cheeks and the forehead. “Hang it someplace nice, and think of us.”

“Oh, I will,” Sid promised.

She smiled again, hesitated for a moment, and then stood on her toes and whispered into his ear. “Daniel never gives his art outside of the family. I'm glad he didn't this time, too.”

Sid stood there for a second, stunned. And then he put his arms around her again and hid his face in her hair. When he thought he could speak, he said, somewhat thickly, “Thank you.” It was all he could manage, but, looking at her face when he drew back, he thought it was enough.

**********

If Sid had had his way, he would have dragged Andrew out of there immediately, but he was talking with Nathalie and Mario, and then he went over to talk to Geno. It looked like he was thanking Geno for something, so out of curiosity, Sid walked over.

“What's going on?” he asked.

“I'm thanking Zhenya for a favor he did for me today.”

Sid made an attempt to raise an eyebrow. It didn't work. But it made Andrew laugh.

“Use your words, Sidney.”

“Fine,” Sid said, pretending to be insulted. “What did Geno do?”

“He got you out of the house this morning. So some of Santa's elves could deliver your Christmas present from me. Which is now in your house.”

“It is?”

“It is. Oh, I need to go thank Tommy, too. He's the one who let the elves in.” He looked around. “I'll be back in a minute.”

Sid immediately turned to Geno. “What did he get me?”

Geno, predictably, laughed. “I not know. I'm ask, but he not say.”

“Did you ask the rookie?”

Geno nodded. “Of course. But he say he not tell. Not want Ace mad at him.”

Which made sense, Sid supposed.

“Sid. You get him present?”

“I did.” Sid was very proud of that fact. “I thought of it myself. And I know he'll like it.”

“What you get?” Geno asked curiously. So Sid told him. And when Geno stopped laughing, he agreed that Andrew would like it. “And he know it your idea, too.”

Sid ignored Geno's smirk. Because he could. And because he didn't want the hassle of returning Geno's present.

Just then, Geno nudged him. “I'm think you wanted.” Sid looked, and sure enough, Andrew was beckoning to him. He was talking . . . well, standing next to Jen from PR. And he had a look on his face. Actually, Sid thought it was a Look. So he stepped up his pace.

“Sidney,” Andrew said very pleasantly, so Sid prepared himself. “Jen would like to discuss some publicity matters with you.”

Sid was at least smart enough not to say, “Why me?” Although he really wanted to say, “Why now?”

“Uh, okay.” He looked expectantly at Jen. Who was usually unflappable (if that was a word), but who seemed noticeably less so right now.

“Well. We always post something about Christmas skate. And I was just asking Andrew if he cared if he was in any of the pictures.”

“Okay,” Sid said slowly. “And?” He looked at Andrew. Who rolled his eyes. But at least he started talking.

“And I asked her to show me what she had in mind.” He gestured, and Jen swiped her tablet and handed it to Sid. Who looked at the image and winced.

“Exactly.”

Sid bit his lip. “It's a nice picture,” he offered.

Andrew's smile had never looked more like his mother's than at that moment. “It _is_ a very nice picture. In fact, I'd like a copy of it. But it also makes it perfectly plain to _anyone_ , and I include infants, small dogs, and possibly house plants in that group, that we are much more than friends.” He threw up his hands. And then he closed his eyes and took a couple of very deep breaths.

When he opened his eyes, he said, “I apologize for my tone. I'd blame it on the fact that I am operating on very little sleep, except that it wouldn't be entirely true. Look, Jen. I have no objections to your using a picture of me. None whatsoever. But you and the rest of your people have to sit down with Sidney and decide what level of display he is comfortable with. Whatever he decides is fine with me. But he's the important one here, so I suggest you have that discussion as soon as possible. Now, please excuse me.” And he turned and stalked away.

Sid sighed, and looked at Jen.

“I'm sorry, Sid. I didn't. . . . It's a great picture.”

All of a sudden, Sid felt very . . . tired . . . himself. “I know it is, Jen. Nobody's denying that. But . . . why? Why would you even think of using it for publicity?”

Jen hesitated for a second before saying, “Because in the media, the person who controls the information is usually the person who wins.”

Sid shook his head. “I know that, but. . . .”

Jen interrupted him. “Sid. The chances of this leaking out are pretty high. There are people here today I've never even heard of before. You have to be prepared.”

Sid just looked at her. Then he looked down at the tablet. He sighed again, and said, “Arrange for that meeting, please.” They had a game the next night, so. . . . “Monday, if possible. After morning skate. And . . . please wake this thing up, and let me look through all of the pictures. Maybe there's one that will work. And then: I'm going to go home, Jen. To spend a couple of hours with Andrew. Who I won't see again, probably, until March. Okay?”

Jen nodded.

**********

The pictures of the Christmas skate that went out on Twitter included two of Andrew. In one of them, he was singing. In the other, he was admonishing Sid for not singing.

Both were retweeted extensively.

**********

When Sid opened the door of his car, he fully expected to find Andrew—since Andrew had sent him a text telling him where he was, and to please give him at least 30 minutes to recoup—but he didn't exactly expect to find him sound asleep in the passenger seat. It was perhaps a real indication of how exhausted Andrew was that he didn't stir when Sid eased the door closed, or when he started the motor.

Sid hated to wake him, but. . . .

“Hey.”

Andrew's eyelashes fluttered.

“Sidney?” He sounded totally groggy. “What time is it? And why is it so cold?”

“It's early. Maybe four thirty. And you didn't turn the heat on.”

“Oh.” Andrew sat up a little, and rubbed his eyes. “Well, I didn't have a key.”

“How'd you get in the car, then?”

The grin Sid got told him that the real Andrew was beginning to function again.

“I stole a hanger from the coatroom, and jimmied the window.” He yawned. “One of the many things I learned at prep school.”

Sid laughed a little. “Are you feeling better.”

“A bit. I needed that nap.”

“I guess you did.” There was a pause, and then Sid said, “Sasha. We're about to have our first fight. Where would you like it to happen?”

“Are we?” An amused laugh rippled out of him. “How about right here? Look, Sidney, I'm. . . .”

But Sid held up his hand. “No. It's my turn to go first.”

“Okay.” And Andrew sat up a little straighter. And waited.

Sid gathered himself. And then he looked directly at Andrew. “Don't you ever say you're not as important as I am. Ever. Never again, Andrew. Do you hear me? Because it is absolutely, positively, not true.”

There was a pause. Andrew studied Sid, almost as if he'd never seen him before. Then he said slowly, “I hear you loud and clear, Sidney. And I can't tell you how much I appreciate hearing that you think I'm important. The only thing is . . . I never said I was unimportant.”

Sid's jaw dropped. “You most certainly did.” He pointed towards the arena. “You stood right in there and said that _I_ was the important one.”

“That's correct. But incomplete. Tell me something, Sidney: what is that place?” He imitated Sid's gesture.

“What? That . . . that's Consol.”

“Also correct. And also incomplete. That is where you work. That is the place where thousands and thousands of people come to see you play hockey. That place is probably synonymous in many people's minds with Sidney Crosby. Number 87. Captain.” He leaned forward. “And I said you were the important one _there_. Because it's true.”

Sid deflated a little. “I guess.”

“No. You don't have to guess. It's true, and you know it. Andrew Singleton means nothing in there. For that matter, Andrew Copley means nothing in there. Except, of course, that maybe they do. Or could. Tell me something, Sidney: do you know why I got so mad?”

“Because of the picture. Because she wanted to use the picture.”

“Yes. But still incomplete. How could she even _think_ of using it? That picture in particular, I mean.”

Sid interrupted. “I asked her the exact same thing.”

“And what did she say?”

So Sid told him. And was, despite himself, amused when Andrew blew a raspberry.

“She's got a point, Andrew.”

“So does a pencil. But put a little pressure on it, and pffft! It's gone. But we digress. I got angry because it seemed to me that by wanting to post that picture of us, by linking us together, by name, in there, at that event, looking like that, she was deliberately ignoring what you have explicitly said you wanted: which is, to keep your private life private.”

“You mean, to stay in the closet.”

“It's the same thing, Sidney.”

“No, it's not.”

“Yes, it _is_. Those two sentences denote the exact same thing; it's the _connotations_ that are different. And your connotation is a lot more negative. You don't want to be out? Fine. I can appreciate your reasons. I happen to think they're valid. For God's sake, if I were in your position, I might very well feel the same way.”

“But you're _not_ in my position. You don't feel like you _have_ to hide being gay.”

“Let me remind you I've never explicitly come out.”

“You don't have to remind me! Just like you don't have to remind me that if you did, it would barely cause a stir! You said so!” Sid was practically yelling now. “And I fucking hate, hate, _hate_ the fact that because we're together, you're closeting yourself too!”

Andrew opened his mouth, but Sid overrode him.

“No, you listen to me, Andrew! You can try and dress it up with talk about the team, not me, and how much you enjoy the plots, and the . . . the schemes, and all that fucking shit. But the bottom line is: you have to hide now. Because I'm too fucking _scared_ to come out! And I fucking hate the fact that I'm a fucking coward! It never really mattered before. Because I was alone. But now I have you, and it does matter! I wish I could come out for you, but I'm afraid!”

Andrew's face was stark white, but his eyes . . . his eyes were like pools of fire. And when he started talking, his tone was . . . dangerous.

“It's my turn to issue orders, Sidney. Never, ever say that again! Don't you _dare_ even _think_ about coming out for me. Ever! If you come out, it has to be for you!” He jabbed Sid's chest. “You, and no one else! And not one second before you're ready! I don't want you to even _listen_ to anyone who tells you differently! Do you hear me?”

For a moment, the only sound in the car was their panting breaths—well, Sid's mostly—and then, Sid just dissolved. He grabbed Andrew, hung on to him tightly for a minute or two, and then, not really knowing if he was laughing or crying, said hoarsely, “I think they probably heard you in Cole Harbour.”

Andrew gave Sid a squeeze; when he spoke, his voice was almost normal. Almost. “Where the hell is Cole Harbour?”

“Nova Scotia,” Sid said through the phlegm. He cleared his throat. “It's where I'm from.”

“Oh.” There was a pause, and then Andrew said, “I bet there's a plaque.”

Sid started to shake. “Actually, it's a sign.”

“Really? What does it say?”

“Wel- Welcome to Cole Harbour, Home of Sidney Crosby.” He was laughing outright, now.

Andrew drew a deep breath. “All right, Sidney. It's time for complete honesty between us.”

Sid managed to get out, “Okay.” And waited.

“Is there a statue too?”

**********

Handing Sid a handkerchief, Andrew said, “By rights, I shouldn't give this to you. Since you mock me for carrying them.”

“It wasn't mocking.” Sid blew his nose. “It was chirping.”

“Ah. Well, one of these days, you'll have to instruct me on the difference. Since we still don't know why it's called that. In the meantime: what should we do with the rest of our evening?”

Sid considered. “Well, your parents might still be inside. They were talking about going out to dinner before they head to the airport.”

Andrew hesitated, and then shook his head. “I'd rather not, to be honest. I don't want to go out tonight.”

“That works for me. What do you want for dinner?”

“Honestly? I want you to drive us to Whole Foods. Where we will buy two extremely thick steaks—beef steaks—of a cut to be determined upon inspection. Which will be served with baked potatoes and a green salad. And just to prove to you that I have not, in fact, been taken over by an alien, I will say that I'm passing on dessert, but you may have anything you wish—with the proviso that if you choose, say, chocolate chip cookies, or even better, brownies, you will give me a bite.”

Sid already had the car in gear. “What brought this on? Not that I'm complaining.”

Andrew's sigh was gusty. “Oh, a lot of things. In no particular order: I miss you. I hate Houston: it's December, it shouldn't be so hot and humid. I miss you. I'm exhausted and, small surprise, cranky. I miss you. I hate every person on this earth who does PR work, and I'm especially angry at Jen, who spoiled the good time we were having and who made me lose my temper. I miss you, and I'm trying not to think about the fact that after tonight, I probably won't see you for three months. How am I doing so far?”

“Pretty good. There's definitely a brownie in your future. Plus: there's a place on our way home that sells vegan ice cream. It's actually pretty good—for something that doesn't have any, you know, cream in it.”

“That sounds—frankly, it sounds as if it could either be quite good or incredibly vile. Maybe they'll let me have a taste before I decide.”

“Or, I could just get it, and you could have a taste of mine.”

“There is that. Okay, sold.”

They rode in silence for a little while. Sid looked over—and saw that Andrew had that crease between his eyes.

“What's wrong?”

“Who said anything's . . . oh, why do I even bother. I'm feeling guilty.”

“About what?” Although Sid had a guess.

“Evgeni and Tommy. They both did me big favors today, and I hardly had time to thank them, let alone catch up. Would you mind terribly if we invited them for dinner? We can make it clear that it's just for dinner. And it will be an early dinner, since my plane leaves tomorrow before 6 AM.”

“I don't mind.” And he really didn't. He liked the fact that Andrew wanted to spend time with the guys. So it was kind of hypocritical of him to want him to do that some other time. “Although, I do have a condition.”

“Oh really? And what might that be?”

“You sound like the queen of England. Well, if she were a tenor. My condition? That you give me my Christmas present tonight. While you're here.”

“Oh, well.” Andrew laughed. “That I most certainly can agree to. Since I'd planned on doing so anyway; I'm really looking forward to seeing your face when you get it. Okay, let me call them.”

The call to Geno was short, and also unsuccessful—or not, depending on your point of view: Geno was having dinner with Andrew's parents. The call to the rookie took longer, and Sid didn't have high hopes when practically the second thing out of Andrew's mouth was “What's wrong?”

“What's going on with him?” Sid asked, when Andrew ended the call.

“I think he's feeling lonely. Or something. He's not coming over: he _said_ he wanted to hang out by himself, which of course is an outright lie, but fortunately, Dad came over at the end and commandeered him; he said Tommy had to come out with them so he had someone to talk to in English. But at least Tommy agreed. Sidney, do you have any idea why he's so . . . unsettled?”

Sid shook his head. “I honestly don't know. He _is_ unsettled—that's exactly the right word. And some of it's him; I don't know how much, but . . . most guys, when their entry-level contracts are exercised, treat themselves. A new car. A nice apartment. But not him. He still drives that wreck, and he still lives in that transient hotel. I get depressed even thinking about it, so I can't imagine what it's like living there. It can't be good for him, and if it goes on much longer, I bet it'll start affecting his play.” He hesitated before adding, “Don't repeat this, please, but I think he's pretty talented. More talented than his stats might indicate. And I've never seen him give less than his best—in a game or in practice. But . . . he's inconsistent. In a really strange way that I haven't completely figured out yet.”

“Those last two things seem to contradict each other, don't they?”

“They do. It's a puzzle. And I don't know if you know this about me, but I don't really like puzzles.”

“Then I'm kind of surprised you like me. Since I can't figure myself out half the time.”

“Only half? I baffle myself most of the time.” He turned his head and smiled. “And for the record: I like you a lot.”

“Likewise.”

**********

On their way home from Whole Foods, after Andrew finished bitching about Sid's hip-checking him at the cashier so he could hand his card over first, he said, “Sidney. May we be serious for a moment?”

“Sure.”

“We had a very emotional discussion back at Consol. I don't know that I would call it a fight, exactly, but it was certainly fraught. And cathartic. And probably good for us. And we should almost certainly talk some more about these things. But I'd like to say one thing for the record, and then I'd like to table any further serious discussions until later. Not to whine, but I came a long way for a very short time, and I would really prefer that we spend the rest of it the way we did while skating: enjoying our time together. Is that okay?”

“More than okay. Before you say your thing for the record, though: I asked Jen to set up that meeting for Monday morning.”

After a moment, Andrew asked, “Did you do that because I suggested it, or do you actually think it's a good idea?”

“Both,” Sid said honestly.

Andrew snorted, but he looked amused, so Sid counted that as a win.

“Well, do let me know how the meeting goes. And now it's my turn. Sidney: I meant pretty much every word I said back there, but in the interests of clarity, I'm going to be extremely explicit here. I do not care that you are not out. I do not think that you are a coward for not coming out. And I _certainly_ do not believe that your decision not to come out is a bad one. You have an extraordinary amount of pressure on you, Sidney, from almost every direction. I'd say every direction, but you've admitted that there's no statue, so I can't.”

Sid laughed.

“And the last thing I want is to put any more pressure on you. I think it's possible—not certain, but possible—that life might be a little easier in some respects if we could simply announce, 'Hey, we're together.' On the other hand, I am almost positive that life would be much more difficult for you in countless other ways if we made such an announcement. Both of those hypotheses have much more to do with the world we live in than they do with us. Therefore, I say, and I swear to you that I am being 100 percent honest here: come out in your own time, for your own reasons, or don't come out at all. I will support you in your decision, whatever it is. And if I ever feel that I can't continue to do that, I promise I will tell you.

“However: I do have one request. It's not one that I make lightly, but I have my reasons, which . . . are mine, for the moment. But what I'm about to ask of you is important to me, Sidney; you should know that. And know also that you certainly don't have to agree to it, and I will try to understand if you honestly don't think you can. My request is this: if you are outed—say, for example, by that clerk in Whole Foods, who ran to go mine the security footage after we left and who even now is negotiating with Deadspin to sell them a picture of the two of us fighting over who got to pay—either say nothing at all, or tell the truth. You may 'No Comment' about me with my blessing 'til the moon turns green, but please don't lie. Please don't deny me by saying I'm 'just a friend.' Do you think you can agree to that?”

Sid thought about it. Carefully. Finally, he said, “I think I can, Sasha. But . . . what if . . . what if it's not an outing situation?”

“Well, obviously, I would trust you to use your best judgment.”

“What if all I'm asked is if I know you? I can easily see some reporter asking me that, especially after today. What should I say then?”

“You do know me. So tell them yes. And if they ask if we're friends, tell them yes. Because we are. I rather like being your friend, Sidney, as I believe I've mentioned quite a bit; it's simply that . . . well, now that we're more than friends, I don't want to be labeled as 'just' your friend.”

Sid turned that over in his mind. “So it's the 'just' that's the issue here. I could say, you're one of my best friends, or a good friend, or my only friend who doesn't play hockey, and those things would be okay?”

“Absolutely. As long as they're true. Am I your only friend who doesn't play hockey? That's what your sister said.”

“Taylor exaggerates. Well, a little.” Sid came to a stop at a red light. Drumming his fingers against the wheel, he said, “Okay. Depending on how you look at it, I either have a ton of friends, or very few. The Sidney Crosby who welcomes you to Cole Harbour? Absolutely everybody is his friend. Then there's the Sidney Crosby who's interviewed all the time. He uses the word friend very loosely. Can you imagine the shitstorm I'd cause if I said something like 'acquaintance' or 'person I barely know?'”

“Well, I could—but I'd rather not.”

“Me either.” The light changed, and he stepped on the gas. “Then there's Sid the Kid. He's got a lot of friends. Everybody he plays with. Everybody he's _ever_ played with. Every Pens draft pick. Everybody who's traded to the Pens. Which is sometimes pretty funny, 'cause the minute he puts on a Pens sweater, he's a friend, even if the last time I saw him he hooked me or sent me into the boards. While chirping me for being a whining faggot or cocksucking baby.

“And then there's Sid. He's got friends. Real friends. Some get traded away, because Sid the Kid needs somebody better on his wing. Some get pushed away because all of the other Crosbys don't have time for him. Some walk away because . . . well, because all those other Crosbys exist. But he does have friends. And he also has . . . special friends. Guys who play hockey. Guys he used to fuck. Guys I spent half an hour in the shower afterwards washing off.”

He slowed down to turn into his driveway.

“And then . . . then there's me. Sid and me: we have some of the same friends. But they didn't know about me. They only knew Sid. They didn't even know I was there. Hiding behind Sid. And now, for pretty much the first time, a bunch of those friends know me as well as Sid. Which feels . . . pretty incredible, actually.

“And I have some other friends now. One in particular. This absolutely amazing man. Who makes me laugh. Who _loves_ to make me laugh. And who loves to make fun of my laugh. And I love that he does that. Because if it wasn't for my laugh, we might never have met. And I think . . . no, I _believe_ . . . that he was my friend first. Even though he met some of the other Crosbys before he met me, he was always talking to me. He always saw me. I'm pretty sure he always knew I was there. Because every time he sings, his voice says my name.”

He reached forward and turned the engine off. Still looking straight ahead, where the headlights threw the harsh angularities of his house into stark relief, he said, “So believe me when I tell you this, Sasha, because it's true: I have never had a friend like you.”

The silence lasted three or four seconds. And then Andrew leaned over, and put his hand on Sid's left cheek. His fingers were a little cold, but Sid didn't resist as they turned his head. He met Andrew's eyes—and saw that they were wet.

“Oh Sidney,” Andrew said softly. “You're teaching my heart a new song.” He swallowed. “I don't know all the words yet. But I do know one thing for sure: the song is you.”

 


	18. Chapter 18

Part of Sid wasn't surprised that they lost the next night, but at least it was in overtime. He had seldom seen Flower take a loss so personally, though. He thought about what to say to him, and finally decided to be brutally honest. He walked over to Flower's stall and stood there while Flower ignored him. Just stood there. Finally, Flower snapped out, “What?”

“You can't change the laws of physics, you know.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Sid?”

“Physics.”

“Go away.”

“No. Not until you explain to me how you think you can break the laws of the universe and be in two places at the same time.”

Flower scowled. Sid waited. They were both Canadian, so Sid thought it might take a while, but he kind of figured he'd win, since Flower had a family who might miss him if he took root in the locker room.

And he did win, because Flower's shoulders slumped, and he looked away. And then said, “I have no fucking clue why I'm so upset.”

“I don't either. If you figure it out, you can tell me. Or . . . you can not tell me. That'd be good too.”

Flower smiled. Reluctantly, but he did it. So. Sid clapped him on the shoulder and went back to his stall.

“Sid. Want to go out tonight?”

“No.” Definitely not. Then Sid hesitated. “But . . . if you feel like it, Geno, why not come over? We'll get something to eat.”

“Okay. But I pick food.”

Sid rolled his eyes. “Fine. Whatever.” He hesitated again. Speaking more softly, he asked, “You mind if I invite someone else?”

“I'm not mind. Who?”

“The rookie.”

“Okay. Why?”

Trust Geno to ask. “I'll tell you later. Okay?”

Geno looked a little mystified, but nodded and walked away.

When Sid had reached a good stopping point in his routines, he went over to the rookie, who seemed about ready to leave.

“Do you have any plans for tonight?”

“I'm guessing I do now. What's up?”

“Geno and I are getting some food. Take out. At my house. I want . . . I'd like it if you came too.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

Sid should have known. “I want to talk to you.” He held up his hand to forestall the inevitable next question. “About something . . . personal.”

The suspicious look on the rookie's face faded away. “Oh. Well, sure.”

Good. “Good.” The rookie's car had died that morning, which he'd been complaining about practically non-stop. “You can go with Geno, or you can wait for me. I won't be much longer.”

“Is that measured in real time, or Sid time?”

Sid scowled—to keep himself from grinning a little. But he couldn't resist saying, “Stop stealing Andrew's material.”

“Believe me,” the rookie retorted, rolling his eyes, “as long as I keep seeing you practically every day, I got no need to steal from Ace. And I'll go with you. Can I have your keys? I'll go wait in the car; I need some air.”

“Sure.”

**********

Even though Geno detoured to pick up the food, he got to Sid's house before Sid and the rookie had even made it inside. As Sid was opening beers for the three of them, Geno asked, “So, you give Andrew his Christmas present?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“He loved it,” Sid said proudly.

“What'd you get him?” the rookie asked.

“He's going to be in Chicago for close to a month. So I got him tickets to a bunch of Hawks' home games. He was thrilled.” Sid smiled as he remembered. “And he was especially impressed once he realized there were no conflicts with his performance schedule.”

Geno looked impressed too. “How you do that?”

Oh, for fuck's sake. “I delegated,” Sid said loftily.

“Which mean?”

“Why do you always ask me questions I don't want to answer, Geno?” Sid complained. “Ugh, fine. I asked Simon to find out, okay?” He ignored the snickers (the rookie) and the guffaws (Geno). “Hey, it's not like it wasn't my idea! And it's not like I didn't do anything! I was the one who called Jon Toews and asked him to arrange things for me.” As the hilarity increased, he put his hands on his hips and glared. “You know, you two can just leave now.”

“I sorry, Sid,” Geno said, wiping his eyes.

“You don't sound sorry.”

“I not. But is polite to say.”

Half of a laugh escaped before Sid could stop it.

“Before you ask: I'm not sorry.” The rookie's tone was unrepentant, and Sid picked up a bottle cap and bounced it off his head.

“I have no idea why I even like you. Come on, let's eat.”

“We eat here, or. . . ?” Geno angled his head.

“Let's eat here,” Sid decided. “Since there's three of us. We can watch something later. Or play video games, if you want.”

Geno had bought enough food for six ordinary people, so in a very short time, there was nothing left. Standing up, Sid asked, “Who wants dessert?”

“Me.”

“What you have?”

“Leftover brownies from last night. And some ice cream.” Sid put the food on the counter and went to get bowls and spoons. “Well, it's vegan, so there's no cream in it. Andrew doesn't do dairy when he's performing. I think technically it's called a frozen dessert.” The look on his face made it abundantly clear what he thought of that.

“Speaking of Andrew: did you like your present?”

Sid could feel his smile get wider and wider. “I loved it! Well, them.”

“What you get?”

“You'll see in a minute. Come on.” And Sid led the way to the media room. He flipped on the lights, and stood back. “What do you think?”

Geno walked in and his jaw dropped. “Andrew get you . . . couch? No . . . _two_ couches?”

“He did!” Sid laughed. “Aren't they great? Try one out!”

Geno sat down—and then went semi-boneless. “Is the best!”

“I know!” Sid was beaming. “That's the same reaction I had the first time. You try too, Tommy.”

“I already did,” the rookie said with a grin. “When they brought them in. I kind of never wanted to get up again. How the hell did Ace know you'd like them?”

Sid had sat down himself and was . . . luxuriating. “He's got the same couches in his place. In his . . . studio, he calls it. It's where he spends most of his time.” He laughed. “I told him I loved his couch and wanted the same one. And then I fell asleep on it. So I guess he figured I was telling the truth.”

Geno and Tommy exchanged glances. Sid looked from one to the other. “What?”

“You mean, night in Boston? When we play Bruins last?”

“Yeah. The first time I went to his place; I've only been there twice. Why?”

Geno's face went . . . soft. “Sid. He must order almost next day, to get here for Christmas.”

Sid stared. “You think so?”

Geno nodded, and the rookie said, “Oh, come on, Sid; like Ace is gonna get you a floor model.” He wiggled into his corner. “This really is great. Maybe when I get my own place, I'll get myself one. That okay with you, Sid? Sid?”

Sid shook his head. “What? Sorry; I was . . . thinking.”

“About?”

Sid didn't bother to answer. He took out his phone and sent a text: _When did u order couch?_

He hadn't even put his phone down before it buzzed.

> _Which one? And why?_

He'd barely finished reading it when his phone rang.

“Hey.”

“That's an extremely odd question, _mon oie_.”

“Maybe it is. Are you going to answer it?”

“Are you going to answer mine?”

“I asked you first. Shut up, you two.”

Andrew laughed. “Where are you?”

“At home. Geno and Tommy are here. We were talking about the couches.”

“Ah. Well, it's not exactly a state secret, I suppose. I ordered the first one from Pittsburgh the morning of opening night. If that makes any sense. Right after I'd seen your castle for the first time. The second one . . . a couple of days after that? I don't remember exactly. Does it matter?

“That's close enough.” Sid was smiling. “How'd you get them to deliver them so fast?”

“They love me in that store,” Andrew said, with not the slightest trace of humility. “So they put a rush on them. Fabric upholstery would have taken longer, but I thought leather would be better in that room, so it all worked out.” He laughed again. “You should have heard them when I arranged the delivery. I did that in person, and your name raised a few eyebrows, I can tell you.”

“I'm glad your eyebrows had some company.” Which Sid thought was pretty clever, actually; it totally didn't deserve a raspberry.

“Are you going to tell me why you needed to know?”

“Yes. But not now.”

“Fine. Be all mysterious. Well, I'm going to sleep; I am tuckered, as Aunt Connie would say. Tell Geno and Tommy 'hi' for me. Sleep well, _mon oie_ , and good luck at the meeting tomorrow. Let me know what happens.”

“I will. Go get some rest.”

He ended the call, and stared into space for a bit, still smiling.

“Sid. Ice cream melting.”

Sid picked up his bowl and started spooning. “Andrew says hi,” he said, between mouthfuls.

“What was that all about?” the rookie wanted to know.

Sid looked from him to Geno, and didn't waste his energy trying to deflect. “I honestly don't know why I needed to know that. It just . . . didn't make sense that he'd order me a couch way back then. Andrew's . . . complicated.”

“Sid expert,” Geno said solemnly. He remained solemn for approximately three seconds.

The rookie, of course, joined in.

Sid just sighed. Heavily. He may have huffed, too. But only once.

**********

Sid was having a pretty good time with Geno and the rookie—despite the undeniable fact that neither was Andrew—so when Geno left the room to go pee, Sid turned to the rookie and said, “So.”

After a pause, the rookie said, “Yeah?”

“Your car broke down.”

“It did.”

“And you must hate where you're living. _I_ hate where you're living.”

“It's not the greatest place, but it's fine for now.”

“Why don't you get your own place?”

For just a split second, a hurt look appeared on the rookie's face, quickly replaced by exasperation.

“You know why, Sid. What the fuck?”

“Humor me, okay?”

The rookie stared at him for a moment. And then said, a trifle bitterly, “'Cause I don't know how much longer I'm gonna be here. I don't want to go through the hassle of renting a place, only to be released and have to pack it up the next day and leave.”

“Do you think you deserve to stay with the Pens? That you've earned it?”

The rookie, quite obviously, bit back his immediate retort. After a few seconds, he said, much more quietly than Sid was used to from him, “I'm not sure I can answer that. Except to tell you that I'm doing my best. If there's something else you think I should be doing, I hope you'll tell me.”

Sid shrugged. “Not really. For what it's worth, I happen to think you're doing your best too. Look, Tommy: I don't pretend to know what's going on in your mind; I can't usually figure out what's going on in mine. And I'm sorry if I'm being rude or intrusive or something, but I have to tell you that I don't think it's good for you living the way you are.”

The rookie opened his mouth but Sid held up his hand. “Let me finish.” He took a couple of seconds to figure out what he wanted to say. “You remember the first time we had a real personal talk? You told me you wanted a partner, and it's not a big stretch to extrapolate from there. You want permanence. Unfortunately, in our job, there's not a lot of that. Sometimes, you have to take the first step yourself.” He paused. “You could call it a leap of faith.”

The rookie opened his mouth again . . . and then said, “I got no idea what to say to that.”

Geno appeared at the door just then, took in the situation in his usual comprehensive way, and jerked his head, which Sid interpreted as asking if he should leave. Instead, Sid addressed his next words to him.

“Geno. If I tell Tommy he can stay here until he finds a place of his own,” (he omitted the alternative, considering it unnecessary), “do you think the other guys will think it's strange? Or . . . I don't know, inappropriate?”

The rookie's jaw dropped. But he didn't say anything.

Geno sat down again, thinking. “Probably weird. But it Sid. So, of course.”

Sid gave him the finger.

“But . . . inappropriate?” He stumbled over the word. “I'm not know. Not think so, but not sure.”

Sid nodded. He wasn't sure either.

“Okay. Let's do this.” He looked at the rookie. “If you want to move in here, we can say it's just until your car gets fixed. Everybody knows we practice together, so it'll make sense. Then, we'll play it by ear. Do you want to?”

“Of course I want to! I hate that hotel. I do want something better, but . . . you're right, you know. What you said before. I've been afraid to even think of the word permanent. A couple of the single guys have offered, and I've considered it, but their places are all small, and they both hook up every fucking chance they get, so no thanks.” He paused. “But why. . . ? Wait. Because I'm gay too?” He burst out laughing; he sounded truly entertained.

Sid and Geno exchanged glances, and Geno shrugged. At least he wasn't the only one who didn't know what was going on, Sid thought.

When the rookie could finally talk again, he wiped his eyes. “Sid. Sid, Sid, Sid. Do you _honestly_ think that any of the guys will believe for one second that you and I will be having big gay orgies every night if I move in? No, hold on, it's not even a question of believing. They won't even _think_ of it. Well, Nealer might, but even he won't believe it.”

“Why not? And why you so sure?” Sid was glad that Geno was the one to ask that.

“Because, Geno. A: We're talking about Sid here. I don't think some of the guys believe that Sid actually has sex.”

“Hey!” Sid said indignantly. Geno just laughed.

“B: We're talking about Sid here. Absolutely nobody—not one single person—who was at the skate yesterday is going to think for one second that Sid has eyes for anybody but Ace. Come on, guys! Get real!”

That . . . was a good point.

“And C: I'm sure I don't have to remind you, Geno, what Andrew did to you after the Caps game. That is fucking _nothing_ compared to what he'd do to me if I even _tried_ to put the moves on Sid.”

Geno started to laugh again, but the rookie wasn't finished.

“And when he finished with me, he'd stop being nice. And start on Sid. I would love to see that, actually,” the rookie said reflectively. “Too bad I'd be dead.”

Geno rolled off the couch, roaring. “Is true!” he managed, after a while. “Russian strong in him. Right, Sid?”

Sid had stopped paying attention. He was imagining Andrew . . . defending his territory. Staking his claim. It was . . . enlightening. He shivered slightly. Would Andrew be sweaty, after ripping the rookie into little pieces? Probably. And extraordinary breath control or no, even he would have to be panting then. He would probably pick Sid up and toss him. . . .

“What?” he snapped irritably, slapping Geno's poking finger away.

“Sid okay?” Geno asked. “You all . . . red.” He pointed to Sid's cheeks, smirking.

“Remind me again why we're friends, Geno,” Sid muttered. He shoved the rookie off the couch and stood up.

“Come on. Let's go get your stuff. Before I regain my senses and change my mind.” Sid stalked out of the room, comforting himself with the thought that he could continue later on. Since there was no way he'd forget what Andrew had looked like in his mind. Picking him up and. . . .

He found himself smiling as he picked up his car keys. Inviting the rookie to stay was already paying off.

**********

The PR meeting went about as well as Sid had anticipated—which is to say, he enjoyed it only slightly more than, say, being bitten to death by fire ants. He tried to keep his temper in check, but it was hard, and when he was handed a three-page (single-spaced!) memo of talking points, he stared at it in disbelief. Then he narrowed his eyes: the title of the fucking thing actually said “when” he came out, not “if.”

He threw the thing down on the table, where it splatted loudly. Mario raised his eyebrows. Jen jumped a little. Her boss asked if there was a problem.

Sid took a deep breath—and tried to channel Andrew.

“I'm afraid there is,” he said, as politely as he could manage. He studied Jen's boss, whose name he couldn't remember; he only been working there a few months. “I think you have a different agenda than I do. The purpose of this meeting was to discuss how much, or how little, of my private life was to be made public. That . . . document,” and a little part of his brain was proud of how much scorn he got into that one word, “is advice for when I come out.” Jen's boss opened his mouth, but Sid interrupted him.

“Before you tell me I'm misinterpreting things, I suggest you read the title of it. Again. Maybe more carefully, this time.

“If your agenda is to convince me to come out, then we're all wasting our time. I am the only person in this room who can make that decision.” He put his hands flat on the table and leaned forward. “And _if_ I decide to come out, I will do it in my own time. I will not be coerced, or bullied, or even 'advised.'”

“But Sid,” Jen said, and Sid tried to remember that she was only doing her job, “what if you're outed?”

Sid stared at her for a minute, his expression blank. “That's something I can't control. Maybe some of that,” he gestured towards the memo, “might be useful in that case. I'll take it with me, and I promise I'll read it.” Sometime. “In the meantime, you should all know a couple of things. Unless there's some drastic change in scheduling, I'm not even going to be seeing Andrew until March, when we're both in New York for most of a week. So I can't imagine that there's any urgency. Second: Andrew is in talks with Alex Ovechkin to give a concert of Russian songs. It's going to be a benefit for a couple of hockey charities. If it happens.”

“Why aren't we involved in that?” Jen's boss wanted to know.

And Sid had had it. “Because _Andrew_ isn't stupid!” he snapped. He had to get out of there.

“Let's wrap this up. To return to my agenda for this meeting: until I say otherwise, you will get my approval for anything your office issues about me that involves my private life. And just so there are no misunderstandings: my private life means  _everything_ I do that is not directly related to an official Pens activity. Furthermore, if Andrew, or his parents, attend any official Pens-sponsored events, you will clear  _anything_ you want to publish that involves them, with them.” He took a deep breath. “For the first time in my life, I have a chance to be as happy off the ice as I am on it. I intend to do everything I can to make sure that happens.” 

He was about to stand up and leave, when he realized he wasn't quite finished. He looked directly at Jen. “If you don't mind, I'd like a word with you alone.” He then looked pointedly at her boss until he pushed his chair back and left. He was clearly unhappy, and Sid just as clearly didn't care.

“Do you have any objection if I stay, Sid?”

That was a little . . . strange. Sid shook his head. “Of course not, Mario.”

He studied Jen for a few seconds. She was obviously nervous; Sid was not exactly acting the way people were used to. He thought about what he wanted to say.

“Jen. First of all, I want you to know that I realize you're just doing your job. And I'm sorry if any of what I'm about to say to you sounds mean. But Andrew flew I don't know how many miles on Saturday to come to Christmas skate. I didn't know he was coming. I wasn't even the one who invited him; Mario and Nathalie did. Obviously, he came to see me. But that's not the only reason; he told me how pleased he was by Mario's invitation. So, after performing Friday night and getting only four hours of sleep, he came to Pittsburgh. He had another performance Sunday afternoon, you know. He should have been resting his voice, but instead, he sang for all of us. He didn't have to do that. But he wanted to. Because he thought it would make people happy. And it did.

“And then you told him you wanted to publish that picture of the two of us. And he got mad. On my behalf, maybe mostly. But still. So, I kind of have to ask you, Jen. Why that picture? I get that he's famous. I get that having him sing to us at Christmas skate is maybe news. I get that it maybe adds something to our reputation, that someone like Andrew would be singing at our Christmas party. But you didn't ask him if you could publish a picture of him singing. You asked him if you could publish a picture of the two of us. Can you tell me why you did that?”

Mario cleared his throat. “Before you answer Sid, Jen: I would like to see this picture.”

Jen woke up her tablet, swiped a few times, and then handed the tablet to Mario. Who raised his eyebrows. At the same time that he tightened his lips. He didn't say anything, though.

Sid looked at Jen and waited. She opened her mouth, closed it again, and then said, clearly picking her words carefully, “I did do everything you said, Sid. But . . . I didn't choose that picture.”

There was a moment's silence. And then Mario stood up and walked out of the room.

When Sid thought he could speak coherently, he said, “Thanks for answering my questions, Jen.”

Jen just let out a shaky breath. “Sid. I'm really sorry. I would  _never_ have tweeted that picture! And,” she looked towards the door; it was closed, but she lowered her voice anyway, “he tried to make me post it without getting anyone's approval. I . . . may have mentioned that Simon had everybody at that restaurant sign an NDA, and . . . well, actually, I lied and said that we had signed one too. I've only spoken to Andrew a couple of times, but I  _knew_ he'd never agree. I didn't know what else to do!”

Sid's head was whirling. It hurt, too. “But . . . why didn't you tell us this on Saturday?”

And all of a sudden, some of the old Jen was back in action. “Sid. I happen to like my job. I'd like to keep it.”

Sid stared at her. And then his jaw firmed. “You will. If I have anything to say about it.” Honesty compelled him to add, “I don't actually have any say whatsoever. As I'm sure you know. But . . . Mario doesn't like bullies. And Mario does like me. And I'm pretty sure Mario likes you. So. I wouldn't worry too much.”

“Thanks, Sid.” Jen smiled at him. She seemed . . . relieved. Which made sense, of course. But. . . .

“I still think you could have said something,” Sid pointed out. “To me. You know, after Andrew . . . walked away.”

Jen eyed him. “I certainly thought about it. But what would I have said? Telling me to post that picture without permission is the first . . . well, clear sign I got that there's something . . . not quite right about him. Better to wait, I thought.” And then she laughed. “Besides. How could I not use this opportunity to give you a real-time example of the benefits of controlling the release of information?” Her smile was impish, and Sid found himself grinning back.

The door opened then, and Mario stuck his head back in.

“Jen. Would you mind joining us in my office? I'd welcome your input.”

“Of course, Mario.” She gathered her things.

Mario held the door for her, and once she'd passed him, he turned to Sid. He studied the younger man for a few seconds, and then smiled.

“You did well there, Kid. I'm proud of you.”

Sid flushed, but couldn't help feeling pleased. And flattered.

“Thanks, Mario.”

**********

The rookie was, naturally enough, waiting for Sid. Since he had no car. And no keys to Sid's house yet.

“Sorry that took so long,” Sid said. He looked at his watch. “Let's go. We should have time to stop at the hardware store.”

“Fine with me.”

Just then, Sid's phone rang.

“Hi, Mom. No. Just walking to the car.” He listened. And then stopped short.

“Um. Okay. Of course. No, not at all. Okay. Talk to you soon. Bye.”

He ended the call and closed his eyes.

“What's wrong?”

Sid sighed. And opened his eyes. And looked straight at the rookie.

“Tommy. That was my mom. She and my sister and my dad are . . . on their way here. For Christmas. Their plane lands around six. I . . . kind of forgot they were coming. I'm sorry.”

“Okay,” the rookie said slowly. “I'm sure I can get back in at the hotel.”

“What? No, I don't want you to do that. That's not what I'm apologizing for.”

“Okay.” Now the rookie was confused. But at least his face looked . . . better. “Then what _are_ you apologizing for?”

“My dad . . . can be difficult. To deal with. Sometimes.”

“Whose dad can't be?” The rookie clapped Sid on the back. “Don't worry about it. Come on; let's go. I'm starving.”

But Sid didn't move.

“Something else you need to tell me, Sid?”

Taking a deep breath, Sid said, “It would be . . . better . . . if we didn't talk about Andrew. At least, at first. I'm . . . trying to figure out how to . . . uh, bring that whole topic up.”

The rookie gave Sid a look that was a mixture of understanding and . . . something else. That Sid didn't want to think about too much. Then he shrugged.

“Good thing they didn't come to Christmas skate, then.”

Sid thought about that for a second. And then he shuddered. And thanked God for Taylor's schedule.

**********

They'd left the hardware store and were almost back at Sid's place before Sid asked, “Have you ever had a boyfriend?”

“Not really. I had a buddy. Once or twice. But not a lot of chances to have a boyfriend. As you probably know.”

Sid nodded.

“But . . . okay. I usually don't tell people this. But I got five older brothers. And three of us are gay. So . . . since bringing a boyfriend home is not exactly news any more in my house, I got a piece of advice for you, if you want it.”

“Sure.”

“Don't spring Ace on your family at Christmas.”

“That'd be kind of difficult, considering the fact that he'll be in Boston.”

“You didn't think he'd be at Christmas skate, either,” the rookie pointed out. “But that's not my point. Although . . . I hope to God if Ace  _does_ show up for a great big gay Christmas surprise, that you sack up and are honest with your folks.”

The first thought in Sid's head was “I hope so too.” And then he thought about Andrew's request, and the meeting he'd just had, and his mouth firmed. “He's not just a friend. And . . . no. I would not do that to him. Especially in my own house.”

“Well, good. Anyway: Christmas . . . Christmas is fucking stressful all by itself. Everything gets magnified. My mom lost it once because her dressing was too dry. Tears! I mean, holy shit, Sid.” He shook his head, remembering. “So, Christmas is not the time to meet the parents. And maybe not even the best time to tell the parents. 'Cause my second brother, he dropped the bomb one year that he was gonna ask his girlfriend to marry him, and my mom was all, 'Then why ain't she here? Does she think she's too good to spend Christmas with us?' And on and on and on. And on.”

Sid couldn't help but laugh. “That sounds . . . like hell on earth.”

“You got that right.”

They'd reached Sid's house by then, and after testing the keys to make sure they worked, they invaded the kitchen.

“I guess I'll have to play it by ear,” Sid said, chewing his second sandwich more slowly than his first.

“All you can do,” the rookie agreed, draining his glass of milk.

“You don't have to answer this if you don't want to, Tommy, but . . . six sons. And three of them gay? How did your dad react?”

“He didn't really know _how_ to react the first time, he was pretty much okay the second time, and by the time it was my turn, it was just not an issue. I was lucky,” the rookie grinned. “And . . . Dad's not that emotional a guy. Which has its plusses and minuses.” He laughed a little. “I remember when I came out to him. He just stared at me, and then, just for a second, his eyes dropped, and he, like, gave his crotch this really weird look. And in my head, I could imagine him saying to his nuts, 'Seriously? Three out of six?'”

When he could talk again, Sid said, “You absolutely have to tell that story to Andrew.”

“Yeah? Maybe I should. Actually, I thought about it already, but then I decided I didn't want to remind him of the first time we met. You know, in the bar?”

“I remember. Of course I remember. But I don't see the connection.”

“Well, it's just that . . . in my house, 'cocksucker' can be kind of a term of endearment.”

**********

All the way to the airport, Sid strategized. He kind of thought the rookie was right, and he didn't intend to have any kind of confrontation, or, God forbid, meaningful conversations—the regular kind were stressful enough. But . . . and it was a big but . . . Sid admitted that he did want to do something. He did want to give some hint that things were a little different in his life now. What that hint should be, of course, was still unknown, and in between signing a few autographs while waiting at Arrivals, he worried at it a little. He'd come up with two ideas, and the germ of a third, when his family arrived.

Taylor, of course, was in front, and she ran over to him and gave him a big hug—and then squeaked when Sid hoisted her up and swung her around—something he hadn't done since she was little. (He almost couldn't do it now; he made a note to compliment her on her muscle tone.) He gave his mother a hug and a kiss, and then said, “Dad!” and hugged him. His father looked startled—as well he should, since Sid hadn't hugged him since winning the Cup, or maybe the Olympics—but didn't seem displeased at all. He ignored the look of disbelief Taylor shot at him from behind their father's back, and led the way to claim their luggage, where they waited, chatting very pleasantly. If you ignored the camera phones, it was actually kind of nice.

Driving out of airport parking, Sid said, “I forgot to tell you; I've got someone staying with me. Tommy Standish, one of the rookies.” His father, who had tensed slightly, relaxed. “He's got real promise, I think.” Discussing that got them all the way to the house.

As they were getting out of the car, Taylor hissed at him, “Since when do you board anybody?”

“When they're stuck in a hotel alone, and their car breaks down.”

That got him approving looks from both parents, and Tommy's manners—he ran out of the house just then and started carrying in luggage—got him his own. Sid actually felt encouraged. “This might not be bad after all,” he thought to himself.

**********

Sid almost didn't wait for Andrew to finish saying hello before he blurted out, “Are you planning on surprising me by showing up here for Christmas?”

“If I were, then answering that question would spoil the surprise.”

“Sasha, please.” Even Sid could hear the desperation in his voice.

There was a pause. And then Andrew said slowly, “No, Sidney, I was not.” Another pause, and then: “Do you need me to come to Pittsburgh?”

Sid sank down on the bed. “No. No, it's not that. Oh fuck, Sasha, I've had the _shittiest_ day. Do you have a few minutes?”

“Give me five minutes, and then you'll have my undivided attention.”

“Okay.” Sid heard some noises in the background. “Where are you, by the way?”

“At home. Well, Mom and Dad's; I came here right from the airport. Anyway: five minutes. You'll be okay 'til then?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. I'll call you back.”

Sid paced around his bedroom as he waited, and almost broke his finger by hitting the 'Accept' button when Andrew called back.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself. I'm sorry I made you wait.”

“That's okay. What'd you have to do?”

After a moment, Andrew said, “Well, to be frank, I had to shit. And I refuse to talk on the phone while doing so. Unlike many men, it seems, if evidence gleaned from airport men's rooms can be believed.”

Sid lay down against his pillow and managed a laugh. “I've never understood that either. Oh, fuck. I feel better already, just hearing your voice.”

“Well, I'm happy to hear that, _mon oie_. But tell me why you had such a horrible day.”

“I . . . don't know where to start.”

“How about chronologically?”

“That should work.” And Sid was off.

When he finished the story of the PR meeting, Andrew said, “You know, I almost don't believe this. What in the name of God was that idiot's motivation?”

“I haven't got a clue. Not that I've had a lot of time to think about it. And to be honest, I don't exactly want to waste my time thinking about him.”

“I suppose. But still, Sidney. What could he possibly gain from maneuvering you into coming out? You would think that someone who worked in PR would want to avoid that particular media frenzy like the plague. It doesn't make any sense. Well, at least we now know why Jen acted like she did. I'm glad about that; I liked her—at least, based on the extremely limited amount of interaction I had with her at the restaurant. Although now I feel a little guilty.”

“About what?”

“I have been thinking truly evil thoughts about her,” Andrew confessed. “Maybe I'll send her some flowers.”

Sid laughed a little. “You're too nice sometimes, you know that?”

“Well, it's nice you think so. But believe me, my dear man, I can be as big a bastard as anyone. Anyway: enough about insane media types. Although I will say one more thing: I hope to God Mario's lawyers make that ass sign the world's most stringent NDA.”

Sid supposed that made sense.

“So tell me what else is troubling you.”

“Are you sure you want to hear me whine some more?”

“Of course. And you're not whining, Sidney.”

“I kind of am. But if you're sure, okay.” He took a breath and exhaled heavily. “My parents and sister are here. To spend Christmas with me.”

There was a brief silence. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

“Both. First of all, I forgot they were coming today. Which isn't their fault, of course. And things started out okay. And Tommy being here is helping.”

“Tommy's there?”

“Yeah. He's staying here for a while; I'll tell you about it later. The thing is: my dad's being . . . difficult.”

“Define 'difficult' for me.”

“Just . . . difficult.”

“Come on, Sidney: you can do better than that. Now, be honest.”

“Honestly? He's being an abrasive, over-bearing asshole, if you want the entire truth.” Sid plopped his head back on the pillow. That _was_ the truth. It was also the most direct criticism he'd ever made of his father in his entire life. When he was sober, anyway.

“What did he do?”

Sid didn't know if he should actually tell Andrew or not. “Well, like I said, things started off okay. I . . . I've been thinking a lot . . . well, some . . . about my relationship with my dad lately.” What the fuck, Sid thought; he might as well actually _be_ honest. “Ever since I met your father. And, well, saw the way you and he act. Together. And I thought that maybe it was time for some changes. So, when I met them at the airport, I gave him a hug. And that went . . . surprisingly well.

“And then, we got here, and I introduced Tommy, and he hit it off with all three of them, and we got settled in, and things were . . . not tense at all. Anyway: Dad is pretty good with tools. So, I asked him if he would help me hang a picture. And he said sure. So I went and got my present from your parents. And I showed it to them. And Taylor started laughing herself sick, and my mom laughed too, but my dad just stared at it. And he got . . . this look on his face. And he asked me who gave it to me. So, I told him: my friends Daniel and Elisabeth. And I asked, 'Don't you think it's funny?' And he said, 'No. I think it's a mockery of you, and you're too thick to see it.' And I. . . .” His voice trailed off.

“And you . . . what, Sidney?” Andrew's tone was gentle.

“I lost my temper with him. Which . . . is kind of unprecedented. And ultimately, kind of useless, I guess, since it just made things worse between us. And made everybody else uncomfortable.”

“I'm sorry, Sidney. Truly. But . . . didn't you even get a moment or two of pleasure out of it?”

“Not really, no.”

“That's too bad. I will admit to you that as much as I hate losing my temper, I do sometimes feel . . . well, satisfied, I suppose, if I manage to say something particularly . . . pointed.”

Sid snorted a little. “What about saying out loud, in front of witnesses, that it's pretty sad when someone who's only known you for a few months understands you better than your own father does? Does that qualify as pointed?”

“Well . . . that probably goes beyond pointed, and into the lethal category. Ouch. And also, bravo, Sidney; I realize that you were angry, and were speaking in the heat of the moment, but that comment is, nonetheless, masterful. It also explains why you feel so bad. Hearing the truth is seldom pleasant, but stating the truth to someone you love is almost always unpleasant.”

“I guess. When the truth isn't something nice, anyway. Well, thanks for listening to me, Sasha.

“You really don't have to thank me, _mon oie_ , but you are entirely welcome. Any time. Well: any time I'm not on stage, anyway. Do you feel a little better now, for having vented?”

“I do. But . . . I think it's actually more for talking to you, than for venting. I always feel better after hearing your voice.”

“I never thought of my voice as having such power,” Andrew said, the amusement plain in his voice. “Or superpower, I suppose, from your description. But I'm glad you feel better. And now: a question.”

“Okay.”

“The way you began our conversation tonight: asking me if I were going to surprise you by showing up there. Would that have been a good thing, or a bad thing?”

Sid hesitated, and Andrew said, “Be honest, Sidney. There's no wrong answer here.”

Finally, Sid answered, “It would have been both. A good thing for me, because I always like seeing you. And . . . a bad thing for you, because when Dad is in one of his moods . . . it's unpleasant. And, if you want to know the truth, as much as I would try not to, I would probably feel . . . inhibited? Is that the right word?”

“It's certainly a word. And I think I know what you mean, so go on.”

“And . . . I don't want to feel that. The rookie and I were talking a little bit today about . . . stuff. And he made the argument that Christmas is not the time to have big confrontations. It's stressful enough without that. And . . . while I agree with him, I think that if you were here, I might not be able to help myself. Because I kind of think that I shouldn't have to treat you any differently in my own house just because my family's here. And if I did—if I felt inhibited—then, in my own mind, I'd be breaking the promise I made to you. I'd be treating you like just a friend. And I don't want to break that promise.” He paused. “Does any of that make sense?”

“It does. And I agree with Tommy. And I agree with you. Remember my singing teacher's advice, Sidney.”

“'Learn to stand on my skates.'”

“That's right. Because of course you're quite correct: Christmas is terribly stressful. You have enough stress in your life, _mon oie_ ; you don't need to add to it needlessly. Now. It's far too early to go to sleep. So I want you to think up a nonpology for your father.”

“A nonpology? What's that?”

“It's when you say you're sorry for something, but what you're apologizing for is not what the other person thinks. You could say, 'I'm sorry I lost my temper,' for example—if you are, of course. You're quite clearly _not_ saying, 'I didn't mean what I said,' but the implication, of course, is there. So, try that, and see what happens. And then, when you're ready to go to bed, give me a call, and I'll sing you a lullaby. After you tell me why Tommy's staying there, though; I almost forgot.”

“That sounds like a good deal. Okay, Sasha. Thanks again.”

“Don't mention it, Sidney. We'll talk soon.”

“Bye.”

Sid sat up, and took a few deep breaths. He could do this.

**********

Telling himself he could do this became Sid's mantra. It got him through Christmas. It got him through New Year's (or, as he thought about it in his mind, it got him through Andrew's going to London). It got him through January: four weeks of wins and losses, of highs and lows, of familiar routines and unfamiliar pangs. Because every time he told himself, “You can do this,” a small but insistent part of his brain told him, “No, you can't.” Drawing on his native stubbornness did not silence that voice. And ignoring the voice didn't really help much either, because there was a part of Sid–an equally small but equally implacable part—that said, “He's right. Saying those words isn't what's helping you.”

Because what was helping him was Andrew. Even from thousands of miles away, he was helping. Each text, each phone call (and Sid hated Greenwich Mean Time as he had seldom hated anything that didn't play for Philadelphia), lifted Sid's spirits and sustained him, however imperfectly, until the next moment of contact. He was existing. He was enduring . . . and he even managed to weather the inquiry from his cell phone provider about whether all those international calls were valid or not (but switching his plan yet again did save him a ton of money, so he supposed he should be thankful).

Having the rookie living with him helped too. And the guys, of course, played their part. Geno helped by being Geno. Flower helped by being Flower. Nealer helped by . . . actually, Nealer helped by _not_ being Nealer, at least in small groups.

And then there was Andrew's family. Andrew apparently had enlisted his father's help on his scheduling program, which resulted in Simon, who, Sid had quickly figured out, was much, much more than an admin, peppering Sid with questions, or lists of questions, at odd intervals. But their conversations almost always had a personal component now. Daniel had his own questions, some about the program (most of which Sid didn't understand, let alone know how to answer, but Daniel didn't seem to hold that against him), but many more about hockey, and not a few about Sid's taste in, or opinion of . . . actually, pretty much anything: food, television, movies, books. And Elisabeth . . . well, at least once or twice a week, Sid got . . . a hand-written note. Or postcard. Or _something_ printed, with a few lines or paragraphs of commentary, or news, or even an anecdote about Andrew (Sid liked those the best; one or two even had a picture of Andrew when he was younger, which Sid put on the top of his bureau); these always ended the same way, with the words, 'Be well, Sidney.'

Sid had been startled when the notes started arriving, and by the time he'd received the second or third one, he figured out that he needed to acknowledge them in some way. And he also quickly realized that he couldn't let himself be pulled into a not-atypical maelstrom of indecision about the best way to do so, since that meant he'd probably never get around to it, and he could not let himself be rude like that. Especially to her. So, one day when Daniel called him to compliment him on a win, he asked if he could speak with Elisabeth. And when she came on the phone, he blurted out that he wanted to thank her for the notes, but wasn't really sure how. And Elisabeth, sounding vastly amused, commented that she was fairly certain he just had. And then her voice changed, and she said, quite seriously, that the only thanks she wanted was to know that he was doing well.

Sid thought about that for a day or so. And then, on his way home from morning skate, he stopped at the post office and bought some stamps. He seldom managed more than two or three sentences, and maybe hotel postcards weren't exactly beautiful, but Sid comforted himself with the thought that he'd get better with practice.

The other thing that happened with Andrew's parents in January was something that Sid could never have predicted, and would never have even known about if it weren't for the fact that some people read more than the sports section.

It started with the rookie. Sid walked into the kitchen one morning and headed straight for his tea (they took turns, and it was working out pretty well), and the rookie . . . Tommy . . . (Sid was trying, but it was a hard habit to break) looked up from his tablet and asked, “Did you see this article about CES?”

Sid gave him what he hoped was a withering glare. “I don't know what that is. And I don't want to know what that is.” He looked pointedly at his mug.

“Oh, for God's. . . . Okay. You get two swallows. Hurry it up.”

Sid would have argued, just for form's sake, but from the set of the rook- . . . Christ . . . Tommy's shoulders, he decided not to waste his energy. He took his allotted two swallows, and then, ostentatiously, a third as he sat down.

“Fine. Enlighten me.”

“CES stands for Consumer Electronics Show. It's a big fucking deal, and it happens once a year in Vegas.”

“And this is supposed to mean something to me?”

Tommy rolled his eyes as he shoved his tablet across the island. “Look familiar?”

Sid picked it up. “Oh. It's my music player.”

“It does a lot more than play music . . . oh, why do I even bother. Yes, Sid, it's your music player. Scroll down.”

So Sid did. And his face lit up. “Hey, it's Daniel!” He peered at the screen. “That's a good picture of him.” He put the tablet down and took another gulp of tea. “I didn't know he was going to Las Vegas.” He started to stand up to go make his shake, but the look on Tommy's face stopped him.

“What?”

“Read the article, Sid.”

“Why? Obviously, you've already read it. Tell me what it says. Or, tell me what you want me to know, since even if I read it, there's no guarantee that I'll figure out what you think is so important that you talked to me before I had my tea.”

Tommy scowled. “Fine. _Your_ music player, which, incidentally, is not its official name, is the big hit of the show. According to somebody in that article, it makes an iPod look like a Victrola.”

“What's a Victrola?”

“I had to look that up too. One of the first record players, apparently.”

“Okay. So that's a good thing, right?”

“Yeah, that's good. That's great. But that's not my point.” He pointed peremptorily to the tablet. “Look at the picture again and read the fucking caption this time.”

Sid huffed, but complied. It seemed like a generic description so he was about to demand an explanation, when he got to the end and his eyes widened.

“You've got to be fucking _kidding_ me. It costs _how much_?”

“I couldn't believe it either! And they gave one to every fucking person at Christmas skate. There had to be at least a hundred people there. Sid, that's like fifty thousand dollars!” He shook his head. “Thank Christ I sent them a thank you note, or I would feel like a fucking piece of shit right now.”

Sid had pulled out his phone, but arrested, he just stared at the rookie. “You sent them a thank you note?”

Tommy bristled. “I got manners, you know. One of these days, you'll meet my mother, and it'll all make sense to you.”

“I didn't mean to insult you.” And he hadn't. “And I know you have manners; you always thank people. Even me. And you were one of the first to thank Daniel and Elisabeth; I noticed that at the time. But a note too? I'm just impressed, that's all.”

Tommy seemed mollified, but all he said was, “Don't take much, then. So who are you calling?”

“Andrew.” And Sid sent a text:

> _R ur parents insane?_

He didn't get an answer until after morning skate. It made him laugh:

> _I thought you'd met them already._

The general consensus in the locker room (Tommy had clearly not been the only person who'd seen the article) was that they had to do something extremely nice for Daniel and Elisabeth. Or, as Nealer put it, “something really fucking special.” Sid asked Geno to figure out what, because the last thing he wanted was to be in charge of a committee.

For his part, Sid took a picture of where he'd had Tommy hang his goose portrait and sent it to them, writing, “Every time I look at this I laugh. And I think of you both.”

 


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cameo appearances by some of the Chicago Blackhawks!

Andrew walked up to the “Will Call” window, loosening his scarf as he did so; Chicago was “colder than a witch's tit,” to quote Aunt Betsy. He gave his name, guessing that Sidney had used Singleton, and took off his gloves. The clerk came back with his ticket and a small envelope. Andrew thanked him, and headed towards his seat. Once he got there and was settled, he ripped open the envelope. His eyebrows rose, and he pulled out his phone; Sidney wasn't playing that night, so they were going to “live text” the game. 

> _I'm at the UC; wonderful seat, so thanks again. Your friend Jonathan invited me out for a drink after the game. Big question mark._

Sidney's first reply said, “ _U shd go_ ”; his second, which arrived moments later, read, “ _If they win_.”

Well, that wasn't too hard to figure out. “ _OK_ ,” he sent. Less than a minute later, his phone vibrated. 

> _Dont stay out 2 late. Need my lullaby._

If Andrew had been an emoticon kind of person, he would have sent one right then and there; instead, he smiled fondly at his phone, and then looked down at the ice as the game started.

**********

Sid grumpily turned over in bed, and let out a deep, and heartfelt, sigh. He should probably resign himself to the fact that Andrew wasn't going to call him tonight. It was a good thing that Jon Toews had asked him out for a drink, he told himself yet again—ever since he'd told Andrew that Jon had helped him get the tickets, Andrew had wanted to thank him, and Sid had no doubt that Andrew could and would work this into his master plan somehow—and once again, Sid skirted around the edges of the fact that he was jealous. The only hockey team he wanted Andrew spending time with was the Pens, he thought mutinously—and he consoled himself with thinking about those few hours he and Andrew had had together in California. He hadn't exactly been happy to share Andrew with the guys after the Ducks game, but if he was being honest with himself, he did really, really love the fact that Andrew fit in so well.

He leaned over to turn out the light—and his phone rang. He fumbled for it, his mood already improving.

“Hey.”

“Sidney.” There was a fair amount of background noise, and Andrew's voice had . . . a tone. No, a Tone, so Sid pushed himself up against the headboard. “I'm in a car with your friend Jonathan and Patrick Kane. Jonathan has just asked me a rather personal question, so I wanted to check with you before I answered him.”

“What was the question?”

“He wants to know if I'm your boyfriend. Or words to that effect. Really, it was quite un-Canadian.”

Sid could hear a squawk in the background. That, plus the 'un-Canadian,' clued Sid in that Andrew was, at least partially, amused.

“So, what should I tell him?”

Well. It wasn't as if Sid hadn't thought this might happen. And Sid knew Andrew well enough by now to know that having this conversation where Jon could hear meant that Andrew was playing with him. So, fine.

“You can tell him whatever you want, Sasha. Just make sure I can hear.”

“Of course, Sidney.” And Sid could hear the _fun_ in his voice now. There was a subtle change in noise; maybe Andrew had put him on speaker.

“Jonathan, Sidney told me I could tell you whatever I want. Therefore: I'm not quite sure boyfriend is the right word to use. Actually, I'm just using Sidney for sex.”

Sid didn't even have time to start laughing before his phone exploded with noise: a long squeal, a shout (was that Kane?), and then, ominously, a very loud bang. Sid's heart was in his mouth; he clutched his phone in his hand and was about to shout out Andrew's name, when he heard Andrew's voice snap, “Jesus fucking Christ, Jonathan! I thought you were supposed to be good on the ice!”

Sid started laughing. And then he pictured what Jon's face must look like. And then he started laughing harder. And he wasn't the only one; Kane was laughing like a hyena. And then he heard Kane gasp, “Dude, you are my new best friend!”

Sid laughed until the sirens stopped.

**********

“Well, Sasha,” Sid said over the phone the next day, “if your goal is still to be associated with as many members of the league as possible, I think you did a good night's work.”

“Why, thank you, Sidney. I suppose I should feel sorry for Jonathan; the story is _everywhere_ this morning. I'm glad he didn't hurt his head. Again. Well, at least the stories that mentioned me got my name right. If I had to be recognized, I should at least get some publicity out of it.” He yawned. “God, I'm tired; I didn't get to bed until after two. It took forever for the hospital to clear Jonathan, what with his history, and I didn't feel as if I could leave Patrick there all by himself. Even if he did fall asleep almost immediately. And then someone from the Lyric woke me up at some God-forsaken hour this morning to ask me if I wanted to postpone rehearsal. Which rather defeated the purpose, but believe me, I was tempted. Instead, I indulged myself with room service. The coffee's pretty good, surprisingly.”

“Why is room service an indulgence?”

“Because I do have two working legs. I was feeling lazy, I suppose; usually, I don't approve of room service.”

“You're so funny. I'm supposed to be the big cheapskate, and even I get room service. Well, sometimes.”

“It's the Canadian in you. And the Yankee in me.” He yawned again. “Anyway: it must be time for you to go practice. And I need to shower. In case I don't speak with you later: play well tonight, _mon oie_.”

“Thanks. Good luck with rehearsal.”

“I'll need it. Say hi to the guys for me.”

“I will. Hey, Sasha?”

“Ummm?”

“What did Jon's face look like? When you said that thing about the ice?”

There was a pause, and then Andrew said, meditatively, “You know, Sidney: I think I have a fairly good vocabulary. But I'm not sure I have the words to describe it. And I could only see it through the rear-view mirror. The next time you play the Hawks, you should ask Patrick; he seemed . . . truly entertained by it. He may have even taken a picture with his phone; you might be able to see Jonathan's face over the air bag.”

“We can only hope.”

**********

The next time Andrew was scheduled to go to a Hawks game, Sid was playing too, so he knew he wouldn't speak to him that night. He was gratified, however, when he checked his phone after the game, to see a whole bunch of texts: about the Pens as well as the Hawks. Andrew being Andrew, he explained: 

> _End of first period. Found a site that live-blogs your games. Almost as good as watching! Hope my phone lasts._

The next morning, it was Sid's turn to make the tea and coffee, so he was alone in the kitchen when his phone rang. Which was probably a good thing, since just hearing Andrew's ring tone (the rookie had been entertaining himself trying to find a perfect match; the current choice was “Piano Man”) made him grin. Widely.

“Hey.”

“Good morning, Sidney. I didn't wake you, did I?”

“Not at all. Did you enjoy the game?”

“I did. Both of them. The guy in the next seat saw me checking out the Pens site (I couldn't remember when your game started) and we had a very interesting conversation. Apparently, there's a whole bunch of these live-blogging sites, and he told me which ones were the best. The Pens site got quite high marks from him, incidentally.”

“Of course it did,” Sid said, aiming for nonchalant and failing miserably, if Andrew's snickers were any indication. “Hey, you mind if I put you on speaker? I'm making Tommy's coffee.”

“Not at all. While you do that, I'll regale you with the highlights of my evening. When I went to pick up my ticket, there was another note from Jonathan attached to it. It said, and I quote, 'Maybe we could try having that drink again. Patrick will drive this time.'”

They both laughed.

“And since the Hawks won, I figured, 'Why not?' So I met them afterwards. And it was as if Jonathan had been totally reprogrammed.”

This time, it was Sid who snickered.

“No, really: I don't know what his problem was the other night, but he was perfectly pleasant, and not at all intrusive. Which I appreciated.

“Anyway: Patrick did, in fact, drive, and they took me to meet some of the other Hawks. And Jonathan said on the way that he had specific orders to do that. I wondered what on earth he meant, but he wouldn't say. And oh, Sidney, guess what?”

Andrew was so excited, he reminded Sid of Daniel. “What?”

“One of the Hawks knew who I was! I mean, he knows me as Andrew Singleton. And when he read the story about the car wreck and saw my name, he apparently made Jonathan promise to bring me so he could meet me. Isn't that incredible?”

“Uh, Sasha: I'm pretty sure you have more than one fan in the world.”

Raspberry time. “That, Captain Crosby, is not my point. My point is: he's my first NHL fan. That I know of, anyway.”

“Excuse me?” Sid was kind of insulted. “What am I? What are the guys?”

He could practically _hear_ Andrew rolling his eyes. “Sidney: I _meant_ , he was a fan before he met me. Don't think I've forgotten the looks the four of you gave me at that first breakfast: 'Opera singer? Is that a thing that exists?'”

His voice was so funny—he was imitating Flower—that Sid couldn't help laughing.

“Okay, fine. You have a Hawks fan boy.” He paused. “Why does that sound kind of dirty?” And then he remembered. And blushed.

Laughter rolled out of the phone. “I assure you, Sidney, he and I did _not_ fan each other.” All of a sudden, there was silence. Then: “Sidney: do _you_ have a fan boy on the Hawks?”

Sid practically choked. “No, Sasha, I do not. I never did.” And then, just because he could, he said, “I mean, what's the point of having a puck buddy if you only get to play with him twice a year?”

Andrew roared. The rookie chose that moment to walk in the kitchen. He pointed to the phone and made a “What's up with him?” gesture. Sid just shrugged, but didn't try to hide his grin.

When Andrew wound down, he said, “I can't thank you enough, Captain Crosby, for that excerpt from your forthcoming book, _A Practical Guide to Puck Buddies_.”

The rookie barked out a laugh. “If it's got phone numbers, I'll take two copies. Morning, Ace.”

“Good morning, Tommy. How are you today?”

“I'm good. What's news?”

“Andrew has a fan boy on the Hawks,” Sid said with a straight face—or a close approximation, anyway.

The rookie paused, his coffee mug halfway to his mouth. “Really? Who?”

Sid wondered why he hadn't thought to ask.

“Brandon Saad.”

The rookie considered. “I'd do him,” he decided. “Feel free to give him my number.”

Andrew laughed. “According to Sidney, it would be highly impractical, Tommy; you only play them twice a year.”

“Yeah, well, twice a year is more 'n I'm getting laid now, so I'll take it. You sure you don't got any little brothers hidden away, Ace?”

“Quite sure. Sorry, Tommy.”

“Eh. I'll live. So Saad likes opera, huh? How'd you find this out?”

“Andrew had drinks with the Hawks after the game last night, and Saad made Toews introduce them.”

The rookie snorted. “That must have been painful.”

Andrew laughed. “Not in the slightest, actually. Although—you should have seen the look on Jonathan's face when I told Brandon he was officially my favorite Blackhawk.”

“He probably looked just like Sid looks right now.”

“Fuck off,” Sid said, shoving him into the island; the rookie just smirked.

Andrew started laughing again. “You may be right, Tommy. The very first time I met Sidney, I told him he looked like a constipated chipmunk. Well, Jonathan looked like a constipated meerkat.”

“Fuck you too, Andrew,” Sid told the phone.

“I'm very sorry, Sidney, but I haven't got the time. I have an interview _and_ my rehearsal with the symphony for tomorrow night's concert, so I definitely need to go have some oatmeal first.”

“I thought you was doing a full opera.”

“Andrew thinks it's inefficient not to multitask,” Sid informed him; his phone made a rude noise at him.

“On that note: have a good day, you two. Talk to you tonight, Sidney?”

“I hope so,” Sid said honestly.

“Me too.” And Andrew ended the call.

Smiling, Sid drank some tea. When he put his mug down, he found the rookie studying him. Intently.

“What?”

For a minute, he thought Tommy was just going to ignore him. But then he got a look on his face, that . . . that Sid didn't have a word for.

“Obviously, you don't have to answer this, Sid, but . . . what's it like being in love?”

Sid looked away for a second. Love. A word he barely even let himself think about. When he wasn't already thinking about it.

“It's . . . pretty fucking wonderful,” he said at last. Then he gestured towards his phone. “When it doesn't totally suck.”

********** 

> _Singleton's impeccable technique and his masterful ability to shade his voice to fit the sense of what he is singing were as evident as always. But there was a change in his performance last evening, clearly discernible (to this reviewer, at least) and almost palpable. His rendition of “Una furtiva lagrima,” one of his signature arias, had new depth, new emotional resonance, even within the confines of a concert performance: his demeanor as the aria unfolded seemed imbued with a sense of almost unbelieving wonder, as if he were cradling something precious, something secret, in his heart. He justly deserved the tremendous ovation he received._
> 
> _Almost as warmly welcomed was his second encore, “Salût, demeure chaste et pure,” from Gounod's_ Faust _, a marked change from his usual repertoire and which, improbable as it seems, he dedicated to the Blackhawks: a number of whom were in the audience. He made a witty—and apt—comparison between opera and hockey, and invited the audience to feel free to imagine Faust through that optic. And the mingled gravitas and, yes, joy with which he sang the aria made it seem fresh—and the comparison, somehow, appropriate._
> 
> _Beginning next week, and continuing through the end of the month, Singleton will be appearing with the Lyric Opera as Fernando in Donizetti's_ La Favorita _. According to the Lyric's website, the opening night performance will also be broadcast on WFMT._
> 
> _—_ from _The Chicago Tribune_

 

********** 

> _Simon do u know how 2 get radio on laptop?_
> 
> _Why not use your player?_
> 
> _? It can do that?_
> 
> _Yes. FYI, I'm laughing at you right now._
> 
> _Evrybdy else does. How do I?_
> 
> _It's Daniel, Sidney. Plug the player into your phone._
> 
> _Tommy is finding cord._
> 
> _OK. How do I?_
> 
> _I'll take care of it from here. What do you want to listen to?_
> 
> _Sasha in Chi tmrrow._
> 
> _Consider it done. I'll set it to play and also record at the same time._
> 
> _! Thx Daniel. Tell E hi._

**********

Sid was sitting on the edge of the couch. There was a moment's silence, and then Andrew burst out, in a voice so full of anguish and pain that Sid had to close his eyes, “ _È_ _spenta!_ ” After a few seconds of thundering chords, the music stopped. And the cheers began.

“How the fuck does he _do_ that?” Tommy demanded.

“I have no idea,” Sid said. He fumbled for his phone. “ _U were incredible!_ ” he wrote. Then, “ _Bravo bravo bravo!”_

The announcers started talking again, saying the names of the performers as they took their bows, but Sid didn't need to hear Andrew's name to know when he appeared, since the roar of the crowd got so loud he was almost surprised that the music player didn't explode. He sank back onto the couch, exhausted, as if he'd just racked up 30 minutes of ice time; he could only imagine what Andrew felt like.

The rookie stood up and stretched. “Well, I'd say that calls for a drink. A real one, in Ace's honor. You in, Sid?”

Sid hesitated. He liked the idea of toasting Andrew; he liked it a lot. But. . . .

“Okay,” he said. “But not too strong. We're flying out tomorrow morning.”

“Yes, Sid. I know, Sid. I hear and obey, Sid.”

Sid gave him the finger, and then dismissed him from his mind. Impulsively, he picked up his phone again and called Daniel.

“Sidney! How are you?”

“I'm good. Daniel, did you listen? Wasn't Sasha fantastic?”

“We did. And he was. Lis was just saying that we should have attended in person.” He paused, and then said, “You know, Sidney, I realize I'm his father, and that both Lis and I would be hard-pressed to be completely objective, but sometimes my son's talent just awes me. That final scene—and then, that last line! It's not even in the score, but I can see why directors prefer it. God, it was just . . . just. . . .”

“Heart-breaking,” Sid said.

Another pause, and then Daniel said, “Heart-breaking is exactly the right word.” Sid heard something muffled, and then Daniel said, “Lis wants to say hello. Good night, my boy.”

“Night, Daniel.”

“Sidney. You're well?”

“I am. Drained, to be honest.”

“As am I. Both Daniel and I cried at the end. Did you?”

“No. But . . .” he looked at the door, “if I'd been alone, I might have.”

“Ah. Who are you with?”

“Tommy. He's gone to make us a drink. To toast Sasha.”

“How nice! What are you having?”

“I . . . don't know.”

“How trusting of you,” she laughed. “If I were there, I'd make you something special.”

“I'm sure it would be,” Sid said, grinning slightly. “And I'm also sure that if I drank it, I'd never make it to the airport tomorrow.”

“That's entirely possible.” She laughed again, and this time it sounded wicked. And unrepentant. “Well, I'll leave you to your libations. Give Tommy my best. Be well, Sidney.”

“You too.”

Sid dropped his phone on the couch and stared into space.

“Hey. Earth to Sid. Have a drink.”

Sid looked up—and was surprised when he saw the glass.

“You made me a Zen Garden?”

“I tried,” the rookie corrected him. “Ace gave me the recipe, but who the fuck knows if I did it right.”

Sid took a cautious sip. “Tastes pretty good to me,” he said. “Thanks, Tommy. I had no idea we had the stuff to make one.” Not that he knew what was in it, but still.

“Eh. I got the stuff when Ace told me how to make it.”

Huh. Sid took another sip. And tried to study the rookie covertly. Which was probably doomed to failure, but whatever.

“That was nice of you.”

Tommy shrugged dismissively. So Sid tried again.

“No. Seriously, I mean it.”

“Sid. It's just a drink.”

“Tommy.”

Scowling. “What?”

“Thanks.”

A pause. “You're welcome.”

Well, Sid reflected, as he took another sip, it was a moment.

**********

When Sid checked his phone after morning skate, he found two texts: one from Andrew and one from Simon. He smiled as he opened Andrew's; it was only a number. The number of days until they saw each other again. Sid couldn't wait. He had plans. Many plans.

Simon's text was more ominous: “ _You are in such deep shit I can't tell you._ ”

Sid pressed seven on his phone; he kind of hoped he didn't make any more new friends, since Daniel and Elisabeth were eight and nine, and he didn't know how to do a two-digit speed dial.

“What'd I do?”

“It's what you didn't do. Daniel was just showing Elisabeth the latest version of the scheduling program, and she saw that you're playing the Bruins next week.”

“Okay,” Sid said slowly. “And?”

“Didn't you have . . . okay, let's be real here, _orders_ to let her know? She says you did. Team party at their place, remember?”

Oh. “I guess I forgot. But . . . Sasha will still be in Chicago, right?”

“Sidney. Do you honestly think that makes a difference?” Without waiting for an answer (which, okay, Sid didn't have), Simon went on, “She just went into warp six efficiency mode. At least. And just so you know: I've seen her do warp seven only twice in eleven years. So, I have two pieces of advice for you. You want them?”

Sid was many things, but not that much of a fool. “Please.”

“Brace for impact. And be prepared to grovel.”

“I can do both of those things.”

**********

“Your mother,” Sid announced when Andrew answered his phone, “is scary.”

“You're only discovering that now?”

“I mean, seriously scary. I had to grovel. Simon's word. And it was over the phone, but . . . I now know exactly what 'dead silence' means.”

Andrew laughed. “What on earth is going on?”

“Post-Bruins-game team party. Remember? I didn't.”

“I . . . didn't either. Ouch.”

“Uh, yeah. Anyway: there's a bright spot in all of this. I don't have to do anything but show up.”

“If I were you . . . I wouldn't forget. Again.”

“Fuck. Can you imagine?”

“I'd rather not. Remember, I've known her a lot longer than you have. But that sounds like fun; Mom and Dad throw great parties.”

“I . . . asked her to invite Eli. Do you think that's weird?”

“Not at all. It's very thoughtful of you, Sidney; he'll be thrilled. Maybe a little overwhelmed, but thrilled nonetheless.”

“Well, I maybe suggested she invite some of his friends, too. If they play, I mean. Otherwise, what's the point? And . . . I thought maybe of trying to get them tickets to the game. It's a Sunday matinee, so that should work. They can just go to your parents' place with us afterwards.”

“That's a great idea, Sidney. Christ, I wish I could be there; I'm jealous already.”

“Well, I wish you could be there too. I miss you, Sasha.”

“And I miss you, Sidney. I mean, things are going incredibly well here; I don't think I've ever gotten better reviews, and the whole cast is absolutely fantastic. Plus, the Lyric is practically offering Bradley _carte blanche_ to get me back soon. But it all seems . . . a little flat, I suppose. Without my goose.”

Sid honked (he'd been practicing). And they both laughed.

Reluctantly, Sid sighed, “Well, I should go. I've got some media shit to do.”

“All right. Good luck; I'll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Not tonight?” Sid was disappointed.

“I doubt it. I have dinner plans, so it'd probably be too late.”

“I don't care. Who are you having dinner with?”

“Some of the Hawks.” He laughed. “I suppose I should be embarrassed, but . . . I'm so sick of eating out that I invited myself to cook in Brandon's kitchen. Which got changed into Jonathan's, since Brandon doesn't cook.”

“Now _I'm_ jealous.” And Sid was, actually. Or envious. Whatever.

“Well, don't be; I'd much rather have dinner with you. And it's not just because I like you best, either.”

Which, okay, made Sid feel really, really good. But. . . .

“Why else?”

“Because Jonathan Toews is the most insanely competitive person I have ever met. He actually _said_ that his kitchen was better than anybody else's. I think he's even more competitive than you.”

“You're wrong,” Sid said, with a straight face. Even though Andrew couldn't see him. “I'm much more competitive.”

“No, you're really . . . oh, shut up.” They both laughed again. And then Sid got serious.

“Listen, Sasha. Try to call me tonight, okay? Unless it's incredibly late.” He fidgeted a little. “I . . . haven't exactly been sleeping well, and I always sleep better if I talk to you.”

“Well, you certainly need your rest, so I promise I'll try. I suppose if I'm still out, I could excuse myself for a couple of minutes. As long as you don't mind that it'll be brief.”

“I don't mind. Well, not really; I know I can't have you all to myself. As much as I'd like to.”

A pause. Then: “You're such a sweetheart, Sidney. And for the record? I feel the same way.”

Good. “I'm glad. Talk to you later, Sasha.”

**********

“Hey.”

“I'm not calling too late, am I?”

“No. Perfect timing, actually; I just finished getting ready for bed.” Sid could hear noise in the background. “Are you still at Jon's?”

“Nope. I'm on my way back to the hotel; Brandon offered to drive me, but I wanted a walk.”

Sid made himself more comfortable. “How was dinner?”

“It was good. I bought enough for twelve, so that was barely enough for five Hawks and me.” He laughed. “I thought the other Andrew—Andrew Shaw; I presume you know him?—was going to lick his plate.”

“What'd you make?”

“You know me: nothing fancy. Salmon. Roasted carrots. Salad. Oh, and your favorite: brown rice.”

Sid made a face, but didn't say anything.

After a pause, Andrew went on, “As a point of information: Jonathan had three helpings of the rice.”

Sid scowled. “You're making that up.”

“No, I'm not. He even asked for the recipe.”

Sid huffed.

“He said it was the best brown rice he'd ever had.”

“Okay, fine. I'll eat it next time. I'll eat four helpings. Can we talk about something else?”

To his credit, Andrew was hardly laughing at all. “No. I have one more rice-related item. After I told him how I made it, he proceeded to tell me how the recipe could be improved.” He made a disbelieving noise, and Sid could picture him shaking his head. “I swear, Sidney: Jonathan's very nice, but the man's a real head case. And Patrick just sat there, rolling his eyes and grinning, and coming out with a chirp every so often. It reminded me of Alex Ovechkin and his wife. Except her insults were better.”

“Now that you've seen them a couple of times: do you think the rumors are true?”

“I have been wondering that myself,” Andrew confessed. “Honestly? I don't know. There were certainly some very charged vibes around that table—and not only from those two. But if I had to guess—about Jon and Patrick, I mean—I'd say no. Or not now. Or maybe not yet. But one thing—no, make that two things—I am sure of: it's much more intense on Jon's side than on Patrick's. Jon wants him so much he's practically gagging for it. And secondly: Jonathan Toews is a total bottom.”

“Really?” He thought about that for a minute. “But he's so bossy.”

“Have you never heard the phrase, 'topping from the bottom?'”

“Uh, no. Although I can guess what it means.”

“Ask Simon about it sometime. When you have an hour or so to spare.” He laughed wickedly. “I would _love_ to set Simon loose on Jon. He'd have him gagged in two minutes flat.”

Sid burst out laughing. “You think so?”

“I know so. It would upset James, though, so I won't do it.”

Sid _really_ wasn't going to go there. He was feeling nice and relaxed, so. . . .

“How much longer 'til your hotel?”

“Maybe ten, fifteen minutes. If I remember the geography correctly. Why? Want a lullaby?”

“I'd love one,” Sid said honestly. “But only if you feel up to it. You've been singing a lot lately.”

“It is a rather intense schedule. But I'm fine. And I'd be happy to sing you something.” A pause. “There aren't really any people around; maybe I'll start now. Any requests, or should I pick?”

“You should pick. But . . . pick one of your favorites. Pick something you love to sing.”

“It'd be my pleasure, _mon oie_. Just let me . . . Rossini, I think. I sang this in Pittsburgh, so you may find it familiar.” And Andrew began, “ _Concedi_. . . .” He only sang a few words, when all of a sudden his voice cut off. There was a lot of indistinct noise, but Sid heard Andrew cry out, and somebody else was ranting and swearing, and _that_ must be Andrew's phone falling on the ground, and now Andrew was swearing (in English, Sid thought inanely), and the noise got louder, and then there was a crack, and a very loud clang, and somebody started _howling_ , and Andrew swore again very loudly.

By this point, Sid had jumped out of bed and was yelling Andrew's name into the phone. There was a pounding on his door, and the rookie pushed his way in.

“What the fuck?”

“It's Andrew! Something happened.” He shouted Andrew's name again . . . and then he heard his voice.

“Andrew! What the fuck happened!” Tommy reached over and hit the speaker button.

“Some fucking nutjob!” Andrew not only sounded winded for the first time in Sid's recollection, he was also wheezing. “He hit me . . . with a fucking pipe, I think.”

“Are you okay?”

“I don't know . . . oh fuck, Sidney . . . there's blood fucking everywhere! Ow!! God fucking damn it! Sidney, I've got to call 911. I'll call you back.”

“Tonight, Andrew!” But Sid wasn't sure if Andrew had even heard him. He took a couple of deep breaths, and then looked at the rookie.

“Should I call his parents?”

Tommy nodded. “Good idea.” So Sid hit speed dial eight. The moment he heard Daniel's voice, he started talking.

“Daniel, I don't have any details, but. . . .”

**********

After he got off the phone, he abandoned the idea of sleep and went down to the kitchen. Then he turned around, went back to his bedroom, and got his phone charger. Even though he wasn't scheduled to use it until the next day, he wasn't taking any chances.

After he plugged it in, he peered at his phone suspiciously. “This thing will still ring even when it's charging, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You're sure?”

Tommy proved, once again, that he wasn't an idiot, because he didn't even roll his eyes; he just pulled his own phone out and dialed Sid's.

After it rang, and Sid answered it to make sure it really did work, he started pacing.

“I can't fucking believe this,” he muttered.

“It is insane,” Tommy agreed. “I mean: he said nutjob, so you got to figure it was, like, random. Maybe a mugging?”

Sid considered that. “Maybe. He's been complaining that it's really cold in Chicago. I bet he was wearing that fancy coat of his. But . . . a pipe.” He shuddered. Then he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Or two.

“You need a drink,” Tommy said decisively.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“I need to be alert.”

“Sid. You need to calm down. Trust me on this.”

Sid opened his mouth to start yelling about how calm he was—and then his phone rang.

“It's his mom,” Sid said, stabbing the “Accept” button. And then the speaker button, before the rookie could.

“Sidney: the police and the EMTs are on the scene.”

“How's Andrew?”

“As far as we can tell, he's not hurt too badly. Details are . . . sketchy. And don't ask me how Daniel is finding this out.”

“I won't.” Sid could only imagine.

“Just a moment, please.” The sound got muffled, and then she came back. “They're going to transport Sasha to the hospital. There's a protocol for head injuries, it seems.” Another pause. And then Sid heard her say, “You tell him.” Was she . . . laughing?

Daniel came on the line. “Sidney: Sasha's en route to the hospital. But I thought you'd like to know: his assailant's going there too.”

“Why?”

“Sasha broke his arm. And cracked at least two of his ribs.” He sounded totally proud. “I'll keep you posted.” And he ended the call.

Sid and Tommy exchanged looks. Then Sid sat down on one of the stools. “You know, maybe you're right. A drink sounds good right about now.”

“I'll join you.” But Tommy didn't move. “I'm thinking we should maybe change Ace's ring tone.”

“To what?”

“'Macho Man.'”

Sid just stared at him for a second. Then he said slowly, “Can you imagine the look on his face?”

Two seconds later, they were both laughing like loons.

********** 

> _Keeping me a while for observation. But I'm fine. Go to bed. Sweet dreams._

**********

“Are you sure you're okay?” were the first words that burst out of Sid's mouth the next morning.

“I'm _fine_ , Sidney. Truly. Well: from a medical point of view, anyway.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means, I don't have a concussion. And no broken bones—although my right cheekbone is cracked slightly. I also have a couple of contusions that rival some of yours, and I won't deny for a minute that I'm incredibly sore. But overall, I'm fine.”

“What about non-medically?”

There was a pause. “Do you mind if I whine?”

“Fuck, of course not, Sasha.” He waited.

“I look _terrible_! They shaved part of my head. I have a ton of stitches—which you can't see, because I have about twelve pounds of gauze taped up there, in case more blood seeps out. I don't think I'm especially vain about my looks, but I will admit to you—and don't you dare repeat this!—that I almost cried when I looked in the mirror this morning.”

“It can't be that bad, Sasha.”

“Oh no? Hang on a second.”

Sid could hear some clicks.

“I just sent you a picture. Look at it, and tell me I'm exaggerating.”

“I'll try. If we get disconnected, I'll call you back.” Sid went to his texts. And. . . .

“Okay. You're not exaggerating. Holy shit, Sasha!”

“I told you so.” He sighed. “They keep telling me it could have been a lot worse—that if I hadn't moved my head just before impact, it _would_ have been a lot worse—but I'm not deriving a lot of comfort from that. Ungrateful of me, I suppose, but there you have it. I don't even want to think about how much make-up I'm going to have to use to cover these bruises. Which are only going to get worse, or so I'm told. And, as long as I'm whining, I _really_ don't want to think about touching my face to put my make-up on.”

“Do they know why you were attacked?”

“Oh Sidney. It's so sad. The police said he's probably homeless. And probably starving. As well as severely . . . well, I'll say disturbed. Mentally, I mean. They haven't been able to get much sense out of him. So I suppose it was truly random. It's too bad, really. If he'd just asked me, I would have given him some money; now . . . well.” His voice changed. “I . . . well, I fought back. And I kind of hurt him. But the police officer said that it was clearly self-defense, so I won't get into any trouble.”

“I should hope not!” Sid was indignant. “And stop feeling guilty: you didn't do anything wrong. He had a pipe, remember? He hit you first!”

“I know, I know. But still. Anyway: let me go. I need to call home; Dad's been text-bombing me.” His voice got a smile in it. “You're their hero, you know? For calling them? Thanks for doing that, Sidney; I mean, I hate it when they worry, but this was something they needed to know.”

“You're welcome. And I'm glad I did the right thing.”

“You did. Can you imagine their reaction if they found out about it some other way?”

“Like how?”

“Oh Sidney: Dad won't ever admit it, but he has web bots scouring the Internet for any and all mentions of my name. Think Google alerts, but much faster.”

Sid laughed a little. “I guess I'm not surprised. Anyway: go call your parents. And don't feel guilty. And don't overdo.”

“Yes, sir. Play well tonight, Sidney.”

“I hope so. You'll be okay?”

“I'll be fine. All I want is to put this whole thing behind me. Which, given my appearance, won't be easy. But a boy can dream, can't he?”

“If I were there, I'd kiss your bruises better.”

“I think I like that dream better. But since you're not here, I guess I'll have to settle for narcotics.”

**********

According to the rookie, Andrew's attack got some press in Chicago, although not nearly as much as Jon Toews' car accident had, which didn't surprise Sid in the slightest. He did wonder whether or not Andrew would be . . . miffed . . . by that fact—and decided that he wouldn't be. Andrew had sounded incredibly sincere when he'd said he wanted to forget the whole thing, which Sid could totally relate to. He was doing his best to do the same thing, but he couldn't help looking at the picture Andrew had sent—even though every time he did, he got mad. And upset. But he couldn't seem to stop doing it. So he gave himself a free pass for twenty-four hours; that seemed like a reasonable length of time.

He still had eighteen hours left when Simon called him.

“Have you seen it yet, Sidney?”

“Seen what?”

“That would be a no, then. Where are you?”

“In the car. Tommy and I are headed to Consol.”

“Are you driving?”

“No; he is. Why?”

“I just sent you a link. Follow it. Call me back if you want.”

Sid stared at his phone for a minute, and then shrugged and complied.

“What is it?”

“Another story about Andrew's attack. I don't know why . . . oh.”

“What?”

“Some security camera filmed the attack, and somebody posted it. How do I . . . oh.” The quality was pretty grainy, but there was enough light to make out Andrew walking, his phone up to his ear. Then the attack—which made Sid start to fume again. And then . . . his jaw dropped.

“Fuck!” he breathed.

“What?”

Sid swallowed. “Uh . . . you have to see this.” He hit play again. “Seriously . . . pull over.”

“Sid. We're here.”

“Oh. Look.” He handed Tommy his phone.

Tommy hit play, and Sid watched his eyes go very wide. “Jesus freaking Christ.” He sounded . . . a little awed. “It didn't even take him . . . what, ten seconds?”

Andrew had grabbed the arm holding the pipe, snapped it like a twig, spun his assailant around, and hitching up his coat, had kicked him right in the chest. The attacker dropped flat; Andrew staggered for a moment—you could see the blood now—and the clip ended.

They watched the clip a couple more times, and then Sid realized that he was in real danger of violating his schedule beyond repair. He sent a quick text to Simon (“ _Wow!!!_ ”), and got out of the car. When they had just about reached the entrance, Tommy asked him, “So. Are you going to show that to the other guys?”

Sid stopped short and gave Tommy an incredulous look. “Are you crazy? Of _course_ I am.”

**********

After the first couple of guys had arrived, Sid made life easy for himself by simply forwarding the link to the entire team. After he managed to recapture his phone. And just before they headed out to the ice, he asked Geno to send it to Ovechkin. Geno laughed, and said, “I'm do already.”

********** 

> _I want to know who came up with ninja tenor, and I want to know right now._
> 
> _. . ._
> 
> _I mean it, Sidney._
> 
> _. . ._
> 
> _Sidney Patrick Crosby, I'm talking to you!_
> 
> _Who do u think?_
> 
> _You._
> 
> _Fuck._

**********

When the horn sounded, Sid thought, “Thank fucking God.” He didn't know what he would have done if they'd lost. This game, in particular. As he got in the handshake line, he kept repeating to himself, “Every game is important.” But even he knew he was deluding himself. This game . . . was personal.

Handshakes. Media. Locker room—where he shaved his post-game routines to the absolute bare minimum he could tolerate, through the simple expedient of forcing himself to think about the bus. Where Eli and his friends were waiting.

“Remember, guys,” he cautioned, “they may play, but they're only fourteen, so try to keep it relatively clean. And yes, Tanger, I'm looking at you. And as for you, Nealer: you keep it _absolutely_ clean.”

“But Sid . . .” Nealer whined. To a chorus of jeers.

Geno yanked Sid's arm and pulled him down on his bench. “Sid. Why you so nervous?”

“I'm not nervous, Geno.”

“Bullshit!” everybody in earshot shouted.

Sid huffed. But he supposed he owed them an explanation. Or, part of one.

“I told you guys that Eli is Andrew's cousin, right? And that I saw him skate at Thanksgiving, and that he's really good?” He got a bunch of nods. How to put this next bit? “Well . . . I'm pretty sure that he's one of the ones . . . who _has_ to play.”

A murmur went around the room; Sid surveyed their faces . . . and was satisfied. Message received.

**********

Outside at the bus, Sid said hi to Eli. He let him introduce his friends, and then he introduced them to the guys.

“You enjoy the game, Eli?” he asked.

“It was great, Sid!” Then Eli grinned, and he lowered his voice a little. “Kind of weird, though; I didn't know who to root for a lot of the time!”

Sid beamed.

Just then, Mario came over. “Sid, our hosts have arranged separate transportation for you.” He nodded his head towards a waiting car. “Eli: you won't mind riding with me, will you?”

“God, no, Mr. Lemieux!”

“Good. Enjoy your ride, Kid.” And he ushered Eli onto the bus.

Sid narrowed his eyes as he walked over to the car. He put his hands on his hips and waited; then, growing impatient, he knocked on the window, but nothing happened. He looked back towards the bus, and saw it pulling away. As soon as it was past them, the rear door opened, and a suit-clad arm reached out and pulled him in.

“Going my way, Captain Crosby?”

The next coherent thought Sid had was, “Thank fuck for tinted windows.” But by that point, they were practically there.

**********

“Did you have a good time tonight, Sidney?”

“I did,” Sid said, stretching out. “You were right; your parents give great parties. Of course, the best part was being ordered—by both Coach and Mario—to skip practice tomorrow. Even if I do have to fly commercial.”

“Well, I hope the benefits outweigh the inconveniences.”

“I don't know,” Sid said, eying Andrew as he took his shirt off. “You look like you've dropped at least five pounds, actually.”

“It's two pounds. Or three. And it's not as if I'm trying to.” He gestured towards his face and grimaced. Well, grimaced deliberately. “If I chew too hard, it hurts. And every time I hit anything over a high B and hold it, my cheek starts to throb. Scoot over,” he ordered, slipping under the covers.

“No.” Sid moved even closer. “There is literally no way I am giving up the chance to be as close to you as possible.”

“Even though I look like Frankenstein's monster?”

Sid considered. “Well, at least you don't need all those bandages anymore.”

“That, _mon oie_ , is cold comfort. And speaking of cold: I tried to wear your hat—the one that I stole from you?—but it irritated the stitches, so I had to stop; I'll probably end up with the mother of all head colds. If not the flu. As if this winter hasn't been hard enough.”

“Well, you certainly feel warm now. Hot, even,” Sid teased. “But then again: I always think you're hot.”

“I'm rolling my left eye at you; it hurts too much if I use both.” But Andrew sounded . . . fond. So Sid gave him a hug. Well, more of a hug. Since his arms were already wrapped around him.

After a time, he asked, “Do you think Eli had a good time?”

“I do. In fact, he told me so. We had a nice little chat. Which reminds me.” Andrew poked Sid's side. “I can't believe you didn't tell me you came out to Eli.”

“I didn't tell you because I didn't,” Sid said, a little grumpily. He'd had his own little talk with Eli. Whose smirk was almost as expressive as his cousin's. “I nearly swallowed my tongue when he asked me who the _other_ gay Pen was.”

Andrew laughed. “Eli's not stupid. And his parents aren't either. After Thanksgiving, I'd be amazed if you and I weren't the subject of more than a few conversations.”

“According to Eli, you're right.” And Sid cheered up. “Eli says that everybody on Team Daniel knows we're together. And everybody else who was there thinks we hate each other. Andy.” He yelped when Andrew pinched his ass.

“You have a distressingly low regard for my dislike of nicknames, Captain Crosby. However, in the interests of amity, I'm going to ignore that fact—for the moment—in favor of asking: Team Daniel? He actually said that?”

“He did. But I said it first.”

“You did?”

“Well, yeah. That's how I felt. Feel.”

Andrew squeezed him tightly. “You're a very special man, you know that?”

After a pause, Sid said, “It's nice that you think that, Sasha. But . . . here, in the dark, I can admit . . . that when I'm with you, I feel like a little kid. One who's just discovering . . . well, what life's all about. What it feels like to laugh. Or no: not that, exactly. Maybe . . . as if I hadn't learned yet to tone down my laugh. If that makes any sense.”

After a few seconds, Andrew said, “I think it does. You're talking about experiencing . . . well, what joy is, I suppose.” And after a moment, he added, “At least, that's how I think about it. When I'm alone with you.”

Sid's response was not in words. And as he drifted off to sleep, some little time later, he was sure that he heard music.

 


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning for extreme violence to an opera libretto.

As the plane touched down and started taxiing towards the terminal, Sid—and everybody else—turned their phones on. He waited impatiently until . . . yes! He had a voice mail from Andrew. He punched in his code and listened. And then started laughing.

“What's so funny, Sid?” Flower asked him.

“Andrew.” Sid hit play again. “He's singing.” He hit speaker too, so everybody could hear Andrew tell them why New York was a hell of a town.

Nealer leaned across the aisle. “From your face, Sid, the Bronx's not the only thing that's up.”

Sid decided that the adult thing to do would be to ignore him. But the teenager in him snickered, which kind of spoiled things.

“Shut the fuck up, Nealer,” Flower said genially. “Sid: is Ace coming to the game tonight.”

Sid nodded. “He is. He's performing when we play the Rangers, but he's coming to the Isles game too.

“That's good. Guess we can count on at least two wins, then, with your lucky charm in the audience.”

Sid gave him a withering glare. “I don't know what you're talking about, Flower. And I don't want to.” And only one of those two statements was a lie.

Nealer leaned over again. “Are you inviting Ace out after the game?”

“If it's okay with everybody.”

Flower looked at him like he was nuts. “Why wouldn't it be okay?”

Sid rolled his eyes. And felt like Andrew while doing it. “It doesn't hurt to check once in a while, you know?”

“Sid,” Flower said, shaking his head. “Don't think so much.” Which made everybody in earshot laugh.

“Fine,” Sid huffed. “I know he wants to see you guys. Although who the fuck knows why?”

The ensuing chirps entertained them all until the plane arrived at the gate.

**********

They won decisively against the Devils, so everybody was in a good mood. Andrew, too, although Sid thought he was a little quieter than usual. He leaned over at one point and asked if everything was okay; Andrew nodded, and edging a little closer, rubbed his shoulder against Sid's arm.

“I'm fine. Happy to see you. It's nice, sitting here. Being able to see you.” He looked around, and then lowered his voice. “Being able to touch you. And thinking . . . oh, seriously thinking of how I want to touch you when we're alone.”

“I can get on board with that,” Sid said, grinning like an idiot. “You want to take off?”

“Your hotel or mine?”

“Yours. Of course.”

“Why of course? Believe me, my hotel isn't all that fancy.”

“It's not that. But . . . at least in yours, the people in the next room won't know who we are.”

Andrew chuckled, and Sid went on, “You do realize we've never actually stayed in the same hotel with the guys before. I wouldn't put it past them to try and listen. And then, no doubt, I'd get a report card the next day. And unending commentary.”

Andrew burst out laughing. “When you're right, you're right, Sidney. Let's finish our drinks and vamoose.”

“We don't have to finish our drinks, you know.”

“James bought them for us; I don't want to be rude.”

Sid supposed he had a point.

Just then, Flower leaned across the table. “So, Ace: what's this opera you're in? Is it like the one we saw in Pittsburgh?”

“Well, yes and no. It's by the same composer. But it's a tragedy, not a comedy.”

“What's it called?”

_“Lucia di Lammermoor_. _”_

“I'm going to see it on Friday,” Sid announced. And then he asked Andrew, “Will they have the words above the stage? Like last time? And will I understand what's going on?”

“They will. And I'm sure you will.”

“What's it about?” Tommy asked.

“You really want to know?”

Tommy's “Sure,” was echoed by a couple of the others. Andrew looked around their end of the table; if Sid had to guess, he was probably trying to figure out if people actually _were_ interested. Evidently, the answer was yes, because he grinned.

“Okay. Well, first of all, bel canto opera isn't exactly noted for its plots. So: how about I tell you the story, but put it in hockey terms? That way,” and he eyed Sidney sideways, “your captain here might actually remember it on Friday.”

“Hey!” Sid mock-complained; in actuality, though, he thought that was a really good idea.

When the chirps stopped, Andrew began.

“Well then. The scene opens in Scotland, at the estate of the Ashton family. They're original six owners, or whatever the Scottish equivalent is, but they've fallen on hard times, and Enrico, he's the head of the family now, is desperately trying to get enough money to fix things.” He paused; “Let's say he's played by Brent Seabrook.”

Everybody nodded.

“Anyway: he's out early one morning with a few of his remaining farm team players trying to fix whatever the 19th-century version of a Zamboni would be. And he's talking with his chief henchman and confidant, Normanno (obviously, Duncan Keith). I should mention at this point that virtually _everybody_ in opera has a confidant, since that's the easiest way of letting the audience know what's going on.

“Also present is his family clergyman, Raimondo. . . .” He paused again. “I think . . . well, Brandon Saad looks the part at least, so let's go with that. Plus, he deserves a role in this, since he actually knows something about opera. Enrico, or Seabs as he's called in this production, is bemoaning the fact that it looks like he's totally doomed, politically and socially, and it's all the fault of their next door neighbor, Edgardo Ravenswood, who's the last surviving member of another original six family. To say that there's bad blood between them is like saying that Quebec City isn't fond of the Habs.”

“Ouch,” said Flower, wincing.

“Or even,” Andrew went on, with a sly look, “like saying that Sidney finds Claude Giroux a trifle annoying.”

Sid shoulder-checked Andrew. “Go on with the story. Andrew.”

“Why, certainly. Sidney. Anyway: Seabs is convinced that he's ruined unless he can marry off his sister Lucia to somebody rich. And Saader's all, 'Dude. Her mother just died. Lucia's in no mood for sexy times.'

“And Duncs says, 'What the fuck are you talking about, Saader? Lucia's positively gagging for it. Every morning, when you think she's out doing drills with her maid, Seabs? She's actually playing keepaway with . . . guess who?'

“And Seabs is like, 'I dunno, Duncs. Who?'

“'Well, I don't know for sure. But I think it's your most hated enemy.'

“And Saader says to himself, 'Shit. He knows.'

“And Seabs is all, 'Give me another hint, Duncs.'”

A bunch of the guys were laughing by this point, and Andrew grinned. “Seabs' character, I need hardly mention, is sometimes a few curds short of a poutine.”

When the noise had died down, Andrew went on, “So then Duncs, who hasn't completely realized yet the utter futility of trying to be subtle where Seabs is concerned, says, 'It's the guy you detest. The one you just mentioned. Hello?'”

“And Seabs scratches his head and says, 'Dude. Do you mean Edgardo?'”

“And Duncs gives this fist pump, and he's obviously thinking, 'Finally!' but all he says out loud is, 'Hey, you said it, I didn't.'

“So now, Seabs is upset. And when the farm team members show up again to report that they've just seen Edgardo in the neighborhood, well, Seabs has a little tantrum, in which he sings quite loudly about rage and revenge, and the scene ends with Seabs being determined to do something. As yet unspecified.

“We are then, through the magic of stage design, transported to a lonely spot. For our purposes, let's call it the Ashton family rink. And skating around there are Lucia—”

“Hey, wait,” Nealer said. “Who plays her?”

Andrew nodded approvingly at Nealer. “An excellent question, James. In a masterful bit of casting, which you all won't fully appreciate until we get to Act II, Lucia is played by Patrick Kane.”

“He's the right height,” someone muttered.

Unlike everyone who was listening to him, Andrew swallowed his laugh. “So, Lucia and her confidant—who I believe must be played by Andrew Shaw—are skating around, waiting for Edgardo to show up to play his morning game of keepaway. And Shawzy says, “Kaner, why the fuck do you keep looking at the ice maker? It hasn't fucking worked in years.” In an obvious aside, Andrew added grandly, “In the original, it's a fountain, but I'm updating. We will, of course, ignore anything inconvenient, including the fact that ice makers did not exist in nineteenth-century Scotland. In general, opera excels at ignoring facts.

“So Kaner tells him, 'Every single fucking time I see that thing, I think of the story about that crazy ancestor of Edgardo's, the one who stabbed his girlfriend, who was probably my great-great-aunt or something, and threw her body inside.' He then confides, 'I've totally seen her ghost.' And Shawzy says, 'What the fuck are you talking about, Kaner?' So Kaner answers the question by singing a remarkably evocative _cavatina_ about the dark and stormy night when the ghost appeared. It shot a few pucks and then vanished, leaving blood all over the ice.

“Well, that's enough for Shawzy, who asks Kaner if he's a fucking idiot, and can't he read the writing on the wall, and doesn't he _know_ that this thing with Edgardo isn't going to end well? But Kaner's not listening, and he seques into a rather rapturous passage about how Edgardo is the light of his days, the comfort of his pain, the tape on his stick, et cetera. He brings this to its logical conclusion—if logical is a word that should ever be applied to bel canto opera—by singing for several minutes about the ecstasy of loving Edgardo; he is, essentially, the Cup of Kaner's heart.

“No sooner does he finish singing and start slamming back a bottle of Gatorade (because believe me, that kind of singing really takes it out of you), then Edgardo appears. And since I rate all of your intelligence rather highly, I don't think I have to tell you who plays Edgardo, do I?”

Geno got it out first. “Tazer!” he said triumphantly.

“Exactly! He strides on stage, with the gold medal he designed himself, the one stating 'Better at Everything,' glinting in the morning sun, and he apologizes profusely to Kaner for keeping him waiting. He claims affairs of state—the future of Scotland itself, in fact—but I suspect he either overslept, or else he had to pick up his car from the body shop. Again. And also, he's very sorry but he can't play keepaway, because he has to leave almost immediately; he's going abroad—probably to another lake-dedication ceremony—but before he goes, he's going to confront Seabs, and tell him that Kaner's his one true winger, and can't they all be pals?

“Kaner's immediate response is, 'Well, we're fucked,' and he has a little bit of a breakdown (Kaner makes rather a habit of doing that, a point we will return to in the next act), but Tazer reminds him that, seriously, even though their families have been feuding for years, and he's totally the injured party, he's going to rise above it all, he'll take care of everything, and you know, he wears the C for a reason, right? So then they exchange championship rings and decide they're married in the eyes of the hockey gods, which of course is all that matters, and they sing a lovely, and quite virtuosic, duet, all about how their sighs of grief at being apart will be carried to each other by the winds—cell phone service being apparently rather spotty in that part of Scotland.

“But we quickly find out that Tazer's wrong, and I'm fairly certain he is the only person in the entire world to be surprised by that fact.”

He paused at that point, and considerately waited for Sid to recover from swallowing the wrong way.

“All better? Well. Seabs has been confiding in, and scheming with, Duncs, and they've come up with a brilliant play, and Seabs hammers and hammers at Kaner, telling him he's got to marry some rich guy named Arturo, or else the whole family's down the tubes. And Kaner's all, “But I promised Tazer! I'm his!” And Seabs calls bullshit, and pulls out a letter, which Duncs has cleverly forged, that claims that Tazer's signed a contract with another team overseas and has found himself a new winger. And Kaner's all, “No, no!” and Seabs is all, “Yes, yes!” And then we hear trumpets, and Seabs tells Kaner, 'He's here, and you'd better do the right thing,' and he leaves to go welcome Arturo.

“And Kaner's all weepy and miserable, and then Saader comes in, and we find out for sure that Saader's also one of Kaner's confidants (because Kaner's the star of this opera, he gets two, and if you've been being alert, you will have noticed that Tazer doesn't have any—presumably because he doesn't need anybody's advice but his own). But if Kaner's expecting real sympathy from Saader, he's dead wrong, because Saader tells him, 'Hey, a contract's a contract, and shitty things like trades happen, but the team comes first, and you've got to play the game you're in.' And after Kaner bitches for a while, he gives in, and Saader gives him props, and then they go get ready for the next act.”

Andrew picked up his drink and took the last swallow. “Anybody else need another?”

Geno stood up. “I'm get. But you no start again 'til I back. Not want to miss.”

When everybody was set—and Sid couldn't help but notice that a couple of the other guys had joined them in the interim (and had been brought up to speed by Nealer, with corrections by the rookie)—Andrew began again.

“So. It's party time at Castle Ashton, and the guest of honor is Arturo. Some productions have the same singer who plays Normanno also play Arturo, but since we have unlimited funds, and since my personal estimation of Arturo is that he's somebody who stares admiringly at himself in every available shiny surface, I think we'll assign this role to Patrick Sharp.

“We begin with a lively chorus of guests, who are, quite literally, singing Sharpy's praises. Which are, of course, well deserved, since it's not exactly easy to get onto the list of Scotland's Most Attractive People Who Name Their Pets After Themselves.”

While Flower mopped up the beer he'd knocked over, Andrew took another sip of his drink.

“And then it's time to sign the marriage contract. Seabs has already sent Shawzy to get Kaner the hell in there, but he takes advantage of the delay to warn Sharpy that since he's still in mourning for his recently dead mother, Kaner doesn't exactly look his best. This doesn't bother Sharpy at all—since most of the time he can't be bothered to tear his gaze away from himself—but maybe Seabs could talk about this rumor he's heard about Tazer sniffing around Kaner? Not that there's any risk, since, after all, Sharpy is, well, Sharpy, but he's all, 'hello, don't you think this is something I should know?' And Seabs is sweating bullets, since Duncs didn't write out an answer for that talking point (the Ashtons haven't had the money to pay for proper media training in years), but fortunately for him, Kaner enters at that opportune moment.

“Shawzy has managed to nag him into a decent dress, but Kaner's obviously been self-medicating, because he's terribly pale and he's still wearing his flip-flops. Which clash rather alarmingly with the dress, but hey, Kaner's still mourning his recently dead mother after all, and everybody overlooks it.

“As an aside: the production I'm in at the Met has a photographer running around in this scene, which doesn't really make a lot of sense to me, but I do think it would be a nice touch in our production, since he can take a picture of Kaner's outfit and sell it to _Glamour_ magazine, which according to my mother, used to (or maybe still does) run a column called 'Glamour Don'ts.'

“So Seabs checks Kaner up to the table where the marriage contract is, hands him a pen, and orders him to sign it. Kaner tries to protest, but he's really in no condition to win this. So after Seabs stares him down, Kaner sings, _'Io vado al sacrificio_ , _'_ which is Italian for, 'I feel like I'm being traded to the fucking Jets,' and he signs the contract.

“And then, quite a few things happen very quickly.

“Seabs says, 'Thank fucking God.'

“Kaner decides that he must be in the middle of a meteorological event, because he announces that he is freezing _and_ burning. Simultaneously. He then announces that he is fainting.

“Just then, there's this ferocious pounding on the door, so Kaner puts the faint on hold, and all the guests wonder, 'Who can that be?'

“And then, Tazer walks in and announces himself.

“And _then,_ Kaner says, _'O fulmine!'_   Which is Italian for, ' _Fuck_ your fucking timing, Tazer!' He then passes out for real.

“Tazer wisely decides to eject the photographer (I mean, the _last_ thing he needs is more pictures of Kaner passed out somewhere), and then begins one of the most famous ensemble pieces in all of opera, the sextet, in which Tazer, Seabs, Sharpy, Saader, Shawzy, and Kaner (when he comes to) all sing their little hearts out. I could tell you what they say, but that would take a while; suffice it to say that the next four minutes are full of feelings.

“Anyway: when they're finished, Tazer gets in a pissing match with Seabs and Sharpy, and they're about to pull out their sticks and brain each other, when Saader puts a stop to it. And makes Tazer explain what he's doing there. And when Tazer says, 'Kaner and I are married,' Saader says, 'Uh, excuse me? No way. Take a look.' And he hands Tazer the marriage contract to read. Tazer does just that: and the vein in his forehead starts to bulge ominously.

“He asks Kaner, 'Is that your signature?' And eventually, Kaner says, 'Yes.' Quicker than thought, Tazer pulls off Kaner's ring and throws it back at him, rips his own off Kaner's finger, announces at the top of his lungs that Kaner has betrayed the hockey gods themselves, and then curses Kaner. Who passes out again, but fortunately, he revives in time to join in the finale.”

Andrew looked at his watch. “It's getting late, so let me pick up the pace here. We have three more scenes. In the first one, Tazer is in the ruins of his ancestral home, talking to himself (which is what people who don't have confidants have to do), when Seabs shows up. They have what is essentially the operatic version of a face-off, in which each vows to kill the other. Sometime. Somehow. They sing a rather jolly little duet, sneer at each other quite a bit, and then Seabs heads home. I would imagine that each one takes comfort in thinking that he won.

“The scene then shifts back to Castle Ashton, where the party's still going on strong. But the merriment comes to a screeching halt (in many productions, quite literally) when Saader comes rushing in, to tell everybody that he just happened to be upstairs, outside of the newlyweds' bedroom, when he heard a noise that he simply had to investigate—whereupon he discovers that Kaner has murdered Sharpy by stabbing him with one of his skates.

“All the guests can't believe it; they're shocked and horrified, so they press Saader for more details, which he is happy to provide. At length. And everybody is more shocked. And more horrified. And then. . . .” Andrew drew a deep breath. “And then, Kaner appears.

“He's wearing his away game sweater, and it's splattered all over with blood. He's holding his favorite stick, his skates are slung over his shoulder . . . and there's blood dripping off of one of the blades. He's even paler than before, and his eyes . . . his eyes are completely glazed over. Whatever he sees . . . exists only in his mind.

“And then Kaner begins singing the famous 'Mad Scene.' He's reliving his wedding night with Tazer (or so he thinks). He thrills—and trills—remembering the sweet sound of Tazer's voice. He recreates his vows, and it's almost as if he's called the hockey gods down to earth to witness them again. As he slips deeper and deeper into the throes of madness, he indulges in a fantastic display of coloratura spinoramas: up, down, and all around. Over and over and over again.

“And then Seabs comes back from his face-off with Tazer. And he's all, 'What the fuck, Kaner?' 'Cause he doesn't realize right away that Kaner wouldn't even feel a puck to the head right then, because he's lost in his own mind. And Saader and the guests are all, 'Dude, get a clue here. He's nuts!”

“But hearing Seabs' voice does spark something—some tiny bit of awareness. And Kaner knows somehow that his shift is almost over, that this might be his last minute on the ice. So he offers up a prayer, and a promise, that after he dies, he'll wait for Tazer, until they can be reunited on the same line, together until the end of time. As it was meant to be.

“And then he utters one last, heartfelt note—and spins and spins until he falls senseless on the floor.”

“Fuck me,” someone breathed, as Andrew, nodding soberly, lifted his glass in a kind of salute.

“Then: it's the final scene. We see Tazer, all alone, sitting in front of his family's tomb. He was going to go for a midnight skate, but the thought of the burial ground drew him instead.

“He could hear the revelry earlier on, coming from Castle Ashton. And he can still see the lights in the distance. He is heartsick, imagining Kaner . . . and Kaner's wedding night. Now that he's lost Kaner, there's nothing left for him on earth. So he decides to seek out death, but he prays to the hockey gods that Kaner will never look upon his tomb, never walk by his grave . . . because that would torture him even after death.

“So deep is he in his misery, that it takes him a little while to notice that he's no longer alone: there's a whole procession from Castle Ashton coming into the graveyard. And the people in it tell him that Kaner is dying. And then they tell him again. And again. Because he can't quite grasp it. And then they tell him that the wedding drove Kaner mad, and that he's calling for Tazer.

“So Tazer jumps up to race over there—he's so distraught, he's not even going to warm up properly—but the death bell tolls and he freezes.

“And then, another group enters the graveyard. At the head of it is Saader, and right behind him, is the catafalque bearing the body of Kaner—now wearing a clean sweater, his favorite stick arranged just so in his now-still hands.

“And Tazer can't believe it. He shakes Saader, but all Saader can say is, 'Kaner's in heaven now.'

“And Tazer realizes that his life is truly over. He weeps, he prays, he sings a lament—Tazer excels at multitasking—and then, he decides upon his course of action. He can't live without Kaner, so he'll die to be with him. He wrenches Kaner's favorite stick from his soft hands, breaks it in half over his knee, and impales himself with it.” Andrew mimed the action with his own hands, and Sid wasn't the only one who jumped.

After a few seconds, Andrew went on.

“Tazer's aim is, of course, excellent, and his wound is clearly fatal; he only has enough life left in him to sing for about two more minutes, but believe me, he makes the most of them. He prays to the hockey gods to reunite him with his one true winger; his last breath on earth is spent making this plea.

“And as he falls, lifeless, across Kaner's body, the hockey gods grant his wish, and everybody there seems to hear the goal horn sound one final time, as Tazer's soul rises to the rink of infinity, where Kaner is already geared up and waiting for him, ready to play until the end of time.

“And the curtain falls.”

There was absolute silence around the table, until Geno, blinking rapidly, asked, “You have extra ticket?”

A bunch of the other guys seconded him eagerly.

Andrew's eyebrows shot up, but all he said was, “I'll see what I can do.”

**********

When they were lying in bed later, after much more important business had been taken care of, Andrew remarked, “If any of the guys do come on Friday, do you think they'll be disappointed?”

Sid rearranged his head on Andrew's chest. “You planning on singing badly?”

“Of course not. Idiot. But . . . by the story. Since, as I hope everybody there realized, I took quite a few liberties in my narration.”

“I seriously doubt that anybody expects to see the Hawks on stage with you. But I have to say: you tell a good story, Sasha.” He snuggled a little closer. “It was almost like it was happening right there in the bar. I'm really glad you explained it to us. I mean, being able to read the words helps, but it'll be nice on Friday to actually know what's really going on.” He closed his eyes . . . and waited.

“Uh, Sidney. . . .”

Sid opened his eyes. And said, “Gotcha!”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started reading hockey fan fiction in January 2014; I started writing this story on April 1, 2015 (for Camp NaNoWriMo). It was supposed to be 30,000 words, because I didn't think I had enough material to write the full 50,000 (and yes, I am that dim sometimes). I wrote "Kaner di Lammermoor" in a single day (September 30, 2015). And laughed my ass off while doing so (Literally. I made the mistake of opening the file at work; the line about Kaner and his flip-flops made me laugh so hard I fell off my office chair).
> 
> A month or two later, I was having a very, very bad day. So I decided to treat myself by rereading one of my very favorite fics: "Tour de Force" by thehoyden (a Kane/Toews extravaganza, the very first K/T fic I ever read). Now, I had stopped reading hockey fics when I started writing one, so I was amazed to realize how much that fic informed my own “fic within a fic” (my translation of the line, “Io vado al sacrificio” could have been taken directly from "Tour de Force" [and I'm being honest when I say that I picked the Jets by looking up team standings on NHL.com, not because I remembered that thehoyden had mentioned them]) and also, by extension, how all of the other fics I had ever read did too. Sharpy and the list of beautiful people? Lake Toews? I learned all of these little details from reading fan fiction. In fact, it is truly not an overstatement when I say that pretty much everything I know about hockey I learned from reading fan fiction. 
> 
> Therefore, and perhaps it's obvious but I'm going to say it anyway: my version of these people—and the sport they play—is, almost by definition, a distillation: a fictionalized version of other authors' fictionalized versions. And if my version has any verisimilitude whatsoever, it is owed to all those writers who came before me. So: thank you all very much. For writing fics so compelling that I was inspired to write my own.
> 
> To move from general debts to a specific one: I owe the phrase “one true winger” (and this debt I knew even as I was typing the phrase) to thenorthface's fic, "Five times Jonathan Toews played matchmaker to his rookie and one-true-winger and one time he didn't have to," which seems no longer to be on the archive. I don't know if thenorthface originated the phrase or not, but it's where I first encountered it, so I hereby acknowledge my (hyphenless) use of it.
> 
> Finally: I would like to thank those of you who've stuck with the story thus far—especially those who've written me such nice comments! Writing, for me, is a solitary thing, so it's been gratifying indeed to receive such wonderfully positive feedback. I truly hope all of you continue to enjoy it!


	21. Chapter 21

When Sid got out of the bathroom the next morning, he found Andrew frowning at his phone.

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing's wrong. Exactly. But Bradley just texted me; there's been some developments on the Ovechkin front, apparently. He's about to get on a plane, but he said he'd let me know when he had more details.”

“You're not going to get to give your concert?”

“I honestly don't know. But . . . oh well: I'm not going to lose any sleep worrying about it. Especially this week, when I have many more excellent reasons to lose sleep.” He winked at Sid. And Sid grinned back.

“I really like the way you think. Do you realize, Sasha, that even leaving out the time I'll be in Columbus, we'll have more time together this week than we've had since November?”

“I do indeed. And . . . okay, I'm just going to say it. Thinking about this week has been . . . _sustaining_ me for quite some time now.” He pulled Sid into a hug. “You have become so necessary to me, Sidney; honestly, sometimes I'm scared by how much I want to be with you.” He squeezed hard, until Sid could barely breathe. Not that he was complaining. Or ever would.

When Andrew released him, Sid wrapped his arms around him, and leaned back a little. Looking directly into Andrew's eyes, he said, “I feel the same way, Sasha. But thank you for saying that. It means a lot to me . . . to hear that, I mean.” He hesitated. And then said, “Can I say something? Or maybe, ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Sometimes . . . oh, never mind. I don't know how to say it right, so forget it.”

“Sidney: just say it. Whatever it is.”

Sid peered at Andrew's face. And saw only open, easy acceptance. So . . . okay.

“Sasha, most of the time, I can read you pretty easily. Which is kind of amazing, actually, since I'm really not good at that. With everybody else in the world. But sometimes . . . sometimes, I can't read you at all. It's like . . . you disappear. No, I don't mean that, actually. It's more like . . . you close a door. Or, you lock yourself in somewhere. Kind of shut yourself off. So I was wondering . . . did you know you do that? Is there a reason why?”

Andrew's face . . . was frozen. For a second or two. And then it relaxed, and he laughed a little bit. Wryly. Which was a word Sid had never even thought of before they'd met.

“You know, you keep saying you're terrible at reading people, but my experience of you is quite the opposite. And the answer to your question is: yes. When I was a teenager, I had an extremely unpleasant experience. Not physical,” he emphasized, “but emotional.

“I've been thinking that I should tell you about it. But . . . the time's never been right. It's not something I would want to talk about over the phone, and our time together has been, as we were just discussing, limited. So, perhaps this week. But not right now. Right now, you have a day off, and I do too, and we're going to go have some breakfast and spend the day together. Okay?”

“Okay.” But Sid didn't let go right away. “You're not mad at me, are you? That I brought it up?”

“No, _mon oie_ , I am not mad at you. I swear. I'll even swear in Italian.” And he sang, “ _Lo giuro_!”

Sid laughed—and let Andrew go. “Okay. I believe you. I'd say that in Italian, but I don't know how. And,” holding up his hand, “don't bother to tell me, 'cause I'll never remember. So: breakfast? My treat?”

“Ooh. I'm going to get the biggest bowl of oatmeal on the menu.”

“I'll even spring for some maple syrup. If it's Canadian, of course.”

“Of course.” And laughing, they left the room.

**********

As they were waiting for the elevator, Andrew said, “So, where should we go? I'll warn you: I've found the food in the hotel restaurant has gone markedly downhill since the last time I stayed here; the oatmeal on Sunday morning wasn't fit for pigs.”

“Well, let's go somewhere else, then.” Sid thought for a minute. “You're in New York a lot more than I am; you must know . . . oh, wait. Are we anywhere near the Upper West Side?”

“We are.”

“There's a place . . . I think near 86th Street. Geno and I and Jordy Staal had breakfast there once with Jordy's brother Marc (he's a Ranger), and it was delicious. Marc said he eats there all the time. I can't guarantee they have oatmeal, though.”

Andrew shrugged. “Then I'll get something else. It's more important that it be good. Plus, it'll be a nice walk.”

They left the hotel and headed north. The sun was bright, but the wind was strong; before too long, Andrew stopped and pulled a hat out of his pocket. His stolen Pens hat.

“I thought you said you couldn't wear that 'cause of your stitches.”

“I couldn't. But I really wanted to wear it. So . . . don't you dare laugh at me, Sidney . . . I took it to a tailor, and she sewed a piece of silk inside it.” He turned it inside out and showed Sid. “So, now I can. And even though most of the stitches have fallen out, it still feels better.” He pulled it on and grinned at Sidney. “Ordinarily, I wouldn't wear this in a town that has its own team, but I left my regular hat at home. Besides, I like wearing yours.”

Sid beamed at him. And pulled his own Pens hat out of his pocket. Andrew laughed and bumped shoulders with him, and they started walking again.

When they got to 86th Street, though, Sid frowned. “This . . . doesn't seem familiar.”

“Well, 86th and what? Do you remember?”

Sid shook his head. “Frankly, I'm surprised I remembered 86th Street.”

“Well, let's Google what's around here.” He pulled out his phone, and they both peered at the results.

Sid was about to take his own phone out and call Jordy, when someone said his name.

He looked up . . . and immediately his stomach dropped. But he tried not to let it show. For a lot of reasons.

“Hi John. How are you?”

“I'm good. I was wondering when I'd see you.”

“Uh, we got in yesterday. We played the Devils.”

John laughed. “I know. I watched. They didn't know what hit them, did they? But don't expect to have it so easy on Saturday.”

Sid managed a grin. “Of course not.” He took a deep breath. And told himself, “You can do this.”

“John. I'd like you to meet my boyfriend, Andrew. Andrew, this is John.”

Andrew wiped the surprise off his face so quickly that Sid was sure John hadn't even noticed it. He extended his hand and said, “I'm very pleased to meet you.”

John stared slack-jawed, first at Sid, then at Andrew, and finally, at Andrew's hand. The sight of which seemed to wake him up. “Oh, sorry.” He shook Andrew's hand. “Uh, yeah. Nice to meet you too.” He went back to staring at Sid.

Andrew raised his eyebrows. The left one said, “What now?” The right one said, “Say something.” Sid didn't think he knew how to answer any questions right then, so he went with the command.

“We were just trying to find a place for breakfast. Do you by any chance know where that place that Marc Staal always goes to is?”

“Uh, yeah. Two blocks up, three blocks west.”

“Great.” Sid winced at how stupid he sounded. Then he saw Andrew open his mouth, and he started praying: “No, no, no, please no.”

“From your comment about Saturday, I'm guessing you play for the Islanders. Would you like to join us, or does that violate some kind of fraternization rule?”

Sid had no problem interpreting the look that John gave Andrew. It broadcast “What planet are you from?” loud and clear.

“Uh, thanks. But no. I've got . . . a thing. To do. But thanks. And, uh, good to meet you.” He turned to Sid. “I guess I'll see you Saturday, Sid. If not, like, before?”

“See you Saturday, John,” Sid said firmly. Well, he tried to say it firmly. Since he also had no problem reading the look of comprehension that was spreading over Andrew's face, it probably fell short. By a mile. Or two.

“Have a good day, John,” Andrew said. Pleasantly. Very pleasantly.

John's gaze went from Sid to Andrew. Then back to Sid. And then back to Andrew.

“You too. Uh, bye.” And he walked away. Quickly.

Andrew watched him go. And turned to Sid.

“Was it something I said?” he asked innocently.

Sid stared at him for a second or two. And then the first laugh escaped. And the others came swiftly after that.

When he could finally form words again, he said, “Can you spell awkward?” Which set him off again.

Andrew, though, was made of sterner stuff. He actually managed to say, “Sidney, I can spell awkward in five languages,” before he lost it.

**********

Once they found the restaurant and had ordered tea and, as Andrew had put it, “the largest cup of black coffee you have,” Andrew leaned against the back of the booth (they'd been seated in the furthest corner, which Sid kind of remembered from last time) and said, “I don't know which is worse: having that little encounter at all, or having that little encounter before caffeine.”

Sid snorted. “I don't thing caffeine would have helped. I don't even think one of your mother's drinks would have helped. Although. . . .” They both thanked the waitress, and Sid asked for a couple of minutes. When she left, he picked up again. “Probably three or four of your mother's drinks would do it.”

Andrew rolled his eyes. “Sidney, if you're capable of doing it after four of Mom's specials, then you're a better man than I am.”

Sid was really glad he didn't have anything in his mouth.

They ordered their food, and Andrew sat, sipping his coffee and staring into space for a few minutes. Then, shaking himself slightly, he said, “How are you feeling?”

“Uh . . . okay.” Then: “Exactly what are you asking me?”

Andrew rolled his eyes again, but this time only at half-speed. “You said 'awkward' back there, and I have to say, that's precisely the right word. But it occurs to me that it must have been far more awkward for you than it was for me. So, I'm checking in.”

Sid smiled. “That's nice of you, Sasha. And it's also nice that you don't seem to hold it against me that awkward is, like, pretty much my default setting.”

Andrew scowled at him. “Don't denigrate yourself, Sidney.”

“I'm not. I'm being honest. But . . . okay, let me think for a second.” And he did. And then, looking around the restaurant, and remembering that one of the reasons Staal liked this place so much was that there was an unspoken rule that people left other people alone, which the wait staff enforced pretty stringently, he leaned forward and said, “Okay. Yes, it was awkward. _He_ was awkward. Maybe worse than me. Is there a word for really incredibly awkward?”

“If there isn't, there should be. I take your point, however. Go on.”

Sid shrugged. “I don't know that I have a lot more to say. Except that: I'm kind of sorry that the first time I ever called you my boyfriend out loud was with him.”

There was a pause, and then Andrew's special smile spread over his face. “Don't be sorry about that, Sidney. You said it very well. It sounded . . . natural. And very nice. Thank you.”

Sid flushed a little. “You don't have to thank me. But you're welcome.” He took another swallow of his tea. “And you're okay about it? About meeting him, I mean?”

“Why wouldn't I be?”

Sid just looked at him.

Andrew threw up his hands. “I'd really like to know where you got that superpower about being able to see right through me. It's very disconcerting. As I believe I've mentioned before.

“But to answer your question more comprehensively: yes, I'm okay. There was one thing he said that made me want to rip his face off and pee on it, but other than that, I'm fine.”

Choking slightly, Sid said, “Now there's an image. What thing was that?”

“I'm sure you can figure it out.”

“Maybe. You could also just tell me, you know.”

“I suppose I could. Very well, in the interests of good communication: when he asked you, somewhat obliquely, I'll grant you, but it was still glaringly obvious, whether or not he'd see you before Saturday's game. I mean, really! Does he think I'm an idiot? That I wouldn't pick up on that? And does he actually think it's socially acceptable to ask something like that in front of someone's boyfriend? To whom he's just been introduced? That boy needs to get a ticket to the clue train.”

Sid started laughing. He tried to keep it down, but he wasn't sure how successful he was. “Oh Sasha,” he said finally. “You're so . . . you.”

“Why, thank you, _mon oie_. I think.”

“It's definitely a good thing.”

Their food came then, and they both dug in with a good will. And if Sid kept his knees pressed up against Andrew's for the entire meal, well, nobody complained.

**********

Even though Sid had said breakfast was his treat, they had their usual squabble about who got to pay, which Sid won through the simple expedient of grabbing Andrew's wallet out of his hand and sitting on it. Andrew narrowed his eyes, but only said, “Fine.” Until they got outside.

“Sidney. You cannot pay for everything.”

“I don't pay for everything. Not by a long shot. But . . . fuck it all, Sasha, I make a ton of money. Let me spend some of it on you. It makes me happy.”

“Well, I'm not exactly hurting either, you know. And if it makes you happy to spend money on me, then shouldn't the converse be true as well?”

“I guess. But . . . you want to know something? I kind of get a kick out of fighting you for the check.”

“You do? Why?”

“Because usually, people just assume I'll pay for everything. It's . . . refreshing to have it be different. Plus, I like to win. As I think you've noticed.”

“You were doing so well, Sidney; you should have stopped while you were ahead.” But Andrew was grinning, and Sid was happy.

“So: how serious were you about taking the day off?”

“Totally. You?”

“Almost totally. I need an hour. To do my vocal exercises. And I apologize, but I really can't skip them when I'm in the middle of a run. Other than that, though: today is just for you and me.”

“That sounds wonderful. And you don't have to apologize. Where will you practice?”

“At the Met.” He looked at his watch. “I've reserved a room, and there's still enough time to walk there. Want to walk with me?”

“Sure.” So they started heading south, but they hadn't gone more than a few blocks before Andrew broke off in the middle of a sentence and said, “Oh, crap.”

“What?”

“Your fan boy is back. And he appears to be on a mission.”

Sid groaned. “I knew it couldn't be that easy.”

John approached them and started talking.

“So. I'm sorry. I acted really weird before. But I was just so fucking surprised that I didn't really even know what I was doing. So. I'm sorry if I was an asshole.” He paused, and then said, more to Sid than to Andrew, “And . . . congrats.” And then he turned to Andrew. “Obviously, I don't even know you. But . . . you must be something special. And probably insane, to take up with this guy.”

“Hey,” Sid protested indignantly; Andrew just laughed.

“I think it's even money as to which one of us is crazier. But thank you. I think.”

John hesitated. “And . . . I'd really like it if we could, like, grab a beer or something sometime. I'd like to hear your story. 'Cause Sid: this is big news.”

Sid exchanged glances with Andrew, and Andrew gave him a whisker of a nod. So Sid resigned himself to the inevitable. But not to the point of impinging on his time with Andrew.

“Well, it's too early for a beer. But . . . if you want to walk with us, Andrew's got something to do for an hour. You and I could get some coffee. If you want.”

“Sure. Where are you headed?”

“Lincoln Center. But Sidney, you don't have to walk me there. I do know the way.”

Sid gave Andrew his stubborn face. “I want to.”

“Well . . . okay. But if you guys see a good place along the way, feel free.”

It was a little awkward—to use the word of the day—at first, but Andrew steered the conversation back to the Devils game, and that carried them for at least ten blocks. He seemed determined to put John further at ease, and soon enough, he was laughing a little. At Sid's expense a little bit, true, but that was okay. Real estate in New York was always a hot topic, he supposed, and Sid would be the first . . . well, among the first . . . to admit that his house was maybe a little ridiculous.

When they got to West 65th, Andrew stopped.

“Well, this is where I leave you. Nice chatting with you, John.”

“You too.”

“Sidney: meet me here in, say, an hour and a quarter?”

Sid checked his watch; “Sure.” With a smile, Andrew walked away, and Sid, sighing inwardly, turned to John. “You know a place we can go?”

John shrugged. “There's gotta be something on Columbus. I don't exactly hang out around here.” He looked around, trying to orient himself. “Let's cut through here.

He led the way, and Sid followed. It turned out that they were actually at the side of the opera house itself, and when they turned the corner, Sid stopped and stared. He was . . . impressed. And then he noticed. . . .

“Hey. Mind if I check something out?”

John shook his head, and Sid walked over to a bunch of very tall signs. Sure enough: Andrew's name was on one of them. He grinned, and took out his phone. He took a picture and then handed his phone to John. “Take a picture of me.” John looked at Sid as if he were crazy, but he did it.

The first picture he sent to Andrew: “ _U R famous!_ ”

The second one he sent to Daniel and Elisabeth: “ _Look where I am!_ ”

**********

Andrew was waiting when Sid got back. Well, actually, Andrew was signing an autograph, so Sid waited a little ways away until he was done.

“Sorry I was late,” he said; “I got kind of turned around.”

Andrew brushed this aside. “If you were late, it was by all of two minutes. How was your little chat?”

Sid rolled his eyes. And then he did it again, in the opposite direction.

Andrew laughed. “That good, huh?”

Sid was aggrieved. “Just because we used to fuck a few times a year doesn't give him the right to ask me four thousand questions.”

“Oh, definitely not.” Andrew was clearly _very_ amused. “How many of them did you answer?”

“As few as possible. Hey, where are we going?”

“I have no idea. Anything you need to do?”

“I should go to my hotel. I want some clean clothes for later on.” He eyed Andrew sideways. “You mind if I stay with you until we leave for Columbus?”

“Of course not. As long as it's okay with your coach.”

“It is. I checked.” And he had. “I should maybe feel guilty about getting special treatment, but I'm not going to.”

“Well, good. Remind me to stop at the front desk and get another room key.”

“Okay.”

“In the meantime, though: where's the team staying?”

“It's . . . uh . . . I forget.” He took out his phone and started sending the rookie a text.

“Wouldn't it be faster if you just called him?”

“I don't remember his number.”

“Sidney: if you're texting him, then you have his number.”

“I know.” Sort of. “But I don't know how to get it from the texts to the phone. And I've run out of speed dials. So this is easier.”

Andrew stared. And then shook his head slowly. “I know something even easier.”

“What's that?”

“ _I'll_ call him.”

“That works too.”

When Andrew hung up, he told Sid, “Tommy has your luggage. Your front office decided there was no point in paying for a room you weren't going to use.”

“That makes sense.”

“I want to take Tommy out to dinner.”

“Okay. When?”

“Tonight?”

“Uh, okay. But let's ask Geno and Flower too.”

“Fine by me. And . . . maybe James? Six is a better number. Or . . . will that cause problems with the other guys?”

“I doubt it.”

“Good; I'll make a reservation. And just so we're clear, Captain Crosby: it's my treat.”

Sid scowled. “Fine.”

“Don't pout. Consider it a reward for your trying morning. And afternoon.”

“The morning, I get. What's going on this afternoon?”

“You and I are having a little remedial telephone training.”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes. Believe me, Sidney: your life will be a lot easier.”

“I don't want to.” Mulishly.

Andrew studied him. And then smiled. Slowly. He leaned a little closer to Sid, and said, directly into his ear, “I'll make it worth your while.” His voice . . . caressed.

“Really? How?”

“Every new talent you master,” and Sid shuddered a little at the emphasis Andrew put on that word, “will be rewarded. But I'll let you pick the reward. So trust me, Sidney, it's in your best interests to make sure we finish before sundown.”

Sid stopped dead and looked at Andrew. Andrew looked back, his eyes heavy. Half-lidded. And languorous.

Sid swallowed. Then he turned away. And hailed a cab.

**********

Invoking the interests of efficiency, Andrew had hired a car, and he entertained the other guys with a (suitably edited) account of that afternoon's tutorial. Sid was too sated to muster up anything remotely resembling affront; he wasn't even really paying attention when Tommy announced, “I know a trick Sid's phone does that you don't, Ace. Give him a call, and you'll see.”

Lazily, Sid wondered . . . and then sat up straight. “Andrew, no!”

Too late.

The look of absolute horror on Andrew's face when he recognized the tune didn't really surprise him. What _did_ really surprise him was that Andrew knew all of the words.

**********

They were sitting in the car for the ride back from Brooklyn, after what everybody agreed had been a fantastic meal—not fancy, but big portions, cooked perfectly, with lots of flavor, and incredible desserts (and, as a bonus, Andrew had arranged for a table that gave them a lot of privacy)—and Sid was ignoring Geno and Nealer, who were trying to talk the others into going out for “one drink,” when Andrew turned his phone back on. And then raised his eyebrows.

“Anything important?” Sid asked.

“A message from Bradley.” He listened for a few seconds. “It's about Ovechkin.”

Hearing that, the other guys shut up. So they all had a rink side seat when Andrew's face changed. And Sid had just enough time to realize that if he'd ever thought he'd seen Andrew's mad face, then he'd been totally mistaken, before Andrew exploded. He started with “That twice-damned goat fucker!” and escalated from there, in at least three languages. Flower actually turned white when he switched to French, and when he began ranting in Russian, Geno looked like he was praying. Or taking notes.

When Andrew switched back to English and started making death threats, Sid decided he should probably try and calm him down, since some of what he was suggesting (“I'm going to rip his head off and kick it so far up his ass that he'll fucking choke on himself!”) sounded truly appealing. He decided to adapt Caroline's girlfriend strategy, so he leaned over, grabbed Andrew's shoulders and shouted, “Sasha!”

“What!”

“Count to ten!” And before Andrew could say anything else, he yelled, “In Serbo-Croatian!”

His mouth already open, Andrew paused. And blinked. And some of the rage in his eyes bled away, but he still bit off every word. “As it happens, I don't speak Serbo-Croatian.”

“Then go learn it. There's a chance you'll be calm by the time you do.”

Andrew blinked again. And his mouth quirked. Just a little. “I wouldn't bet on it.”

Nealer chose that moment to sing-song, “He's back!”

And Sid sat back, satisfied, as the rest of Andrew's anger visibly drained out of him before he started to laugh. Weakly at first, but it was enough.

**********

“Want to share with the rest of the class, Ace?”

“Vodka first,” Geno pronounced.

But Andrew shook his head. “If I start drinking now, I won't stop. And I have just enough of a brain left not to get stinking drunk the night before I perform. Anywhere, but especially at the Met. You think Philly's a tough crowd? I know someone whose career got derailed because he coughed in the middle of a duet. Once. And to answer your question, Tommy: not really. But I will. After I apologize for losing my temper in front of all of you. Again.”

Flower laughed; “I'm just glad you root for our team.” And Nealer sniggered, “Not that we didn't already know, Andrew, but you are super scary. And I mean that in the best possible way.”

Andrew rolled his eyes a little, but he did seem more relaxed. “Anyway: my agent just informed me that Ovechkin has decided it's time to announce the hockey player concert. And he seems to have forgotten that although he's sponsoring it, and I use that word in the loosest possible sense, _I_ am the one giving it. And therefore, I should be the one to make any decisions about it—such as, holding a press conference to announce it, which is, of course, a decision I would _never_ make, because it's perfectly ridiculous. A press release, yes. A press conference? Whoever heard of such a thing?”

Sid exchanged glances with Geno. Who said, “Not that strange. For hockey. Maybe for opera, I not know. When you give concert?”

Andrew bit his lip. “I wasn't going to say anything yet, because in my mind it's not a done deal, but . . . it's in June. At the NHL awards. Ovechkin said, and I have to agree with his logic, that it's about the only time a lot of you guys will be in the same place at the same time. Not that I expect that big of a crowd. I figured I'd sing for an hour or so, and then we could all have drinks. Ovechkin will Twitter-bomb the Internet with pictures of himself, we'll raise a little money for charity, and, if I'm lucky, then I've established myself as a hockey fan and nobody will pay any attention to me afterwards. Doesn't that sound reasonable? Certainly more reasonable than holding a press conference like Ovechkin wants, for what is really no more than a private party.”

Everybody else in the car looked at Sid. Who sighed. “I think I told you already, Sasha, that reasonable is not really a word you should use in the same sentence with Ovechkin. Or, maybe even in the same paragraph. And I think you kind of underestimate how big a deal this could turn out to be. You're thinking in terms of opera, I guess, not hockey. Ovechkin has more endorsement deals than any other player in the league. And there's a reason for that. So: you should maybe adjust your expectations upwards. And you should definitely talk to your agent. When does Ovechkin want to have this press conference?”

“On Thursday. Here, in New York. The Caps are playing the Rangers that night.” And Andrew laughed. Mirthlessly. “I was even thinking of going. Before.”

Geno leaned forward. “You make Ovi get you ticket. Best seat. You insist. Be most Russian.”

Andrew looked plaintively at Geno. “Can't I just kill him?”

“Not that Russian.”

**********

When they got back to Andrew's room, Sid asked, “Are you going to call your agent?”

“It's a little late. Don't you think?”

“I think you're not going to be able to sleep until you do. So call him.”

Andrew sighed. “You're probably right. Okay. You going to get ready for bed?”

Sid nodded, and headed for the bathroom. As he went through the hotel version of his pre-bedtime routine, he thought about how Andrew had imagined his concert. Something didn't add up to him: Andrew wasn't arrogant at all, but he also wasn't especially afflicted with false modesty. Sid remembered all the people trying to buy tickets for his concert in Pittsburgh, and wondered exactly why Andrew didn't think his hockey concert would be news. As he flossed, he supposed he could ask. Maybe he would.

As it turned out, he didn't really have to. Andrew was just finishing his call when Sid came out of the bathroom; he tossed his phone on the bed and announced, “Bradley just told me that I was being naïve and obtuse. And willfully blind. And a couple of other things. And he also agrees with you, Sidney.” He sank down onto the bed, flopped backwards onto his pillows, and groaned. “I think I'm being hoist on a petard of my own cleverness. Why am I so stubborn? Why didn't I just ignore Ovechkin? Or tell Evgeni to send him a copy of that frigging CD and be done with it? Why did I feel as if I had to get the last word? And why am I meddling in a world where I understand almost nothing?”

“I don't know the answers to most of those questions, Sasha,” Sid said, sitting down next to him and taking his hand. “But I assume the last one is referring to hockey. In general.”

Andrew opened one eye. “Professional sports in general. And specifically, hockey. You know, Sidney, that I paid virtually no attention to sports for most of my life. Well, it seems that I'm paying the price for that now. What you said in the car? About Ovechkin's endorsements? Bradley told me how much a year he earns from them. I nearly shat myself.” He sighed. Heavily.

Lying down so he could snuggle, Sid asked, “What are you going to do?”

“Play the hand I've dealt myself. After all, to repeat some words of wisdom that I uttered—presciently, it seems—during my recounting of _Kaner di Lammermoor:_ you've got to play the game you're in. So I'll do Ovechkin's freaking press conference, and I'll smile and play nice and hold onto my temper if it's the last thing I _do_ do. But . . . one thing that I won't do, Sidney?”

Sid was . . . intrigued . . . by the look on Andrew's face. “What's that, Sasha?”

“I won't be condescended to. Bradley told me to be prepared to be treated as if I were some star-struck hockey fan boy. And I _will_ be prepared. Because anybody who tries to do that? Is in for a surprise.”

“If your face were one of those 'Word-A-Day' calendars,” Sid said, starting to laugh, “it would definitely read 'evil' right now. I kind of wish I could be there.”

“I wish you could be too. But . . . hey, when do you leave for Columbus: Wednesday or Thursday?”

“Wednesday afternoon. I think. Why?”

“I may need your help. Would you mind if I pick your brains about hockey minutia? And maybe some other stuff?”

“Of course not.”

“Well, good. Thanks, Sidney.” Andrew gave him a kiss, and then disengaged himself. “I'm going to go hose down. If you're still awake when I'm done, I'll sing you a lullaby.”

“It's a deal.”

**********

The Pens _slaughtered_ the Rangers.

**********

When Sid woke up from his nap on Thursday, he didn't even get out of bed before he fumbled for his phone. And . . . two! 

> _Play well tonight, Sidney._
> 
> _By the way: I rather think I won._

**********

Sid knocked on the rookie's hotel room door. After five seconds, he upgraded to a bang.

“What?” Tommy said, yanking the door open.

“What took you so long?”

“Forgive me for wanting to finish my piss first.” Tommy shut the door; it was not _quite_ a slam. “What do you want, as if I didn't know?”

Sid just gave him a flat stare. Then he put his hand out.

“I haven't washed mine yet, but okay.” Sid snatched his own hand back just in time.

“You're disgusting. Now, where's your tablet? What happened at the presser? And don't try to tell me you didn't look.”

“You know, Sid, the next time you have to say something about me after a game, be honest and say, 'You know, Tommy reads the news so I don't have to.'”

Sid laughed—well, snickered. But only a little. “I'd be happy to. So, what happened? And go wash your hands; you can talk at the same time.”

“Fine.” He walked into the bathroom. “There's not much news yet, Sid. It just ended a couple of hours ago, so all that's out there so far is the standard PR crap. The only thing you might be interested in is that Ace looked like a million bucks; there's a picture of the two of them on my tablet, which is on the nightstand. I bet Ace's suit cost more than your couches.”

Sid picked up the tablet and woke it up. And smiled at the picture. Well, at half of the picture.

“He does look good,” Sid said proudly.

“Told you.”

The tablet made a noise, and Tommy walked over and grabbed it.

“Okay, now there's more. Let me see.”

Sid's phone rang. Geno.

“Where are you?”

“In Tommy's room.”

“I be right there.”

“Geno's coming,” Sid announced.

“Okay, we'll have a party. Well, this is interesting.”

“What?”

“Looks like Ace has been busy. Or that agent of his, whatever. Turns out that it wasn't just sports reporters in the audience; there was music people too. I wonder if Ovi knew that? Listen to this: 'Singleton, who is currently appearing at the Metropolitan Opera in New York, is considered by many to be the finest bel canto tenor in the world today.'” He scrolled down. “Jesus Christ: apparently people waited in line for three days for tickets to some concert he gave: his debut, they call it. Wow. Three days; I can't imagine. Carnegie Hall—that's a big deal, ain't it?”

“I guess. I mean, I've heard of it—even before I met Andrew. I think. So, probably.” He got up to let Geno in. Who was holding his own tablet.

“Sid: you see?”

Sid nodded. “Tommy was just telling me.” As he turned around from shutting the door, he saw Tommy's jaw drop. “What?”

“You're not going to believe this. 'Perhaps the most surprising thing about the announcement came at the very end, when Singleton announced that the cost of the concert would be underwritten by Singleton-Copley Enterprises, of which his parents, Daniel Copley and Elisabeth Singleton Copley, are CTO and CEO, respectively. He also said that SCE would match any eligible donations received, up to a total of $500,000. Which means, of course, that youth hockey programs may benefit from a very substantial windfall indeed.' Half a million bucks! Fucking Christ!”

Sid looked at Geno. Geno looked at Sid. They both nodded.

And then Tommy barked out a laugh. “Oh my God! Ovi must have had a stroke. Listen: 'Asked if his parents were hockey fans, Singleton replied, 'They both enjoy it. Dad's probably a bigger fan than Mom, though.' When asked who his father's favorite player was, Singleton laughed, 'Totally Crosby, all the way.' He then added, 'Sorry, Alex.'”

**********

Sid practically waltzed through the game against the Jackets.

********** 

> _Columbus hates you right now. At least, according to the live-blog site I'm on._
> 
> _Sidney: did you really start laughing *before* you made that goal?_
> 
> _Someone just asked me for my autograph. At a Rangers game!_

********** 

> _Sum1 just asked 4 my autograph. At the opera!_
> 
> _Fuck Sasha U made me cry_
> 
> _Bravo bravo bravo!!!_

********** 

> _It's been an interesting (read, mostly dispiriting) time lately for hockey fans in the New York Metro area, as last night the Pittsburgh Penguins swept the Islanders and completed their trifecta, having beaten the Devils on Sunday and the Rangers on Tuesday. And not to discount the superb playing of veterans Evgeni Malkin, James Neal, and Chris Kunitz, as well as first-year player Thomas Standish, all of whom scored at least two goals over the course of the three games, but most of the credit is due to Sidney Crosby, who was evidently having a good week, scoring at least two goals in each. Crosby's record has been somewhat uneven this season—his highs and lows have both been more pronounced than in previous years—but he commanded the ice with his usual intensity, and also with an unusual display of open emotion. If skating up to each face-off with a big smile on his face was merely a tactic of his, it nonetheless succeeded brilliantly._
> 
> —from “NHL Roundup,” _The New York Times_

 

 


	22. Chapter 22

When Sid walked out of the shower, half a dozen guys yelled, “Check your phone!”

As Sid passed Tommy, he noticed the scowl. “What?”

“He changed the ring tone. Again. Somehow. How the fuck does he do that? You haven't even seen him in almost two weeks! I've made you change your password five times!”

Sid laughed. “I don't know. I thought Daniel was doing it for him, but he says no.”

“Well, you're changing your password again. Tonight. I am not letting him win this.”

Sid rolled his eyes; the betting on the “Tone Wars” was almost entirely in Andrew's favor.

He had just reached his stall when at least a dozen phones in the dressing room buzzed. Simultaneously. 

> _Would *somebody* please go drag his impressive ass out of the shower already?_

Ignoring the debate as to how many Pens it would take to actually lift his ass, Sid pressed speed dial six. As soon as he heard a click, he said, “My impressive ass is still dripping—as is the rest of me. What's going on?”

“I'm sorry for the text-bombing, but this is time-sensitive. Would you be willing to offer me food and a room tonight?”

“Of course! How many times have I told you, you don't have to ask?”

“Thank you. And I don't know; I'll try and figure it out on the plane. Which is boarding now, so let me go; I'll see you in a couple of hours. Don't pick me up; you go home and relax. Bye.”

“Bye.” Grinning from ear to ear, Sid put his phone down.

“That face can mean only one thing,” Flower said, smirking. Which seemed to be the cue for a rag-tag chorus of “You're Getting Lucky Tonight.” Which Sid ignored. Because of course.

He started in on his post-shower routine, only to have to pause when Tommy appeared at his elbow.

“You want me out tonight, Sid? I can crash at Nealer's. Or Geno's, maybe.”

“I think we're capable of restraining ourselves in front of you,” Sid said dryly. “It's fine with me if you come home. Do what you want, though.”

Tommy gave him a measuring look. “Seriously?”

“How long have you known me? Am I in the habit of saying things I don't mean?”

“I guess not. Well, okay, then. If you're sure.”

Sid rolled his eyes. “I'm sure. Go away and let me get dressed.”

“You mean I can't stay and watch you unroll your socks? While counting?”

Sid shoved him. And ignored the chirps cascading around him. He hadn't counted in months; he listened to Andrew sing in his head instead.

**********

Andrew's first words were, “I thought I told you not to pick me up.”

“I ignored you,” Sid announced, giving him their public bro-hug.

“Obviously.”

“You have any luggage?”

“Just this.” His messenger bag and duffle. Which Sid pulled off and slung over his own shoulder.

“You do realize that neither of my arms is broken, don't you?”

Sid ignored that too. “How old is this thing, anyway?”

“About . . . 70 years, I imagine. It belonged to _Dedushka_ Alex.” Andrew always had a very fond tone in his voice when he talked about his mother's parents.

Sid put the duffle in the back of his car, and then got in the driver's seat. And as soon as Andrew closed his door, leaned over for a kiss.

“Hey there.”

Even in the dim light of the garage, Sid could see Andrew's slow smile start to emerge.

“Hey yourself. It's good to see you.”

“Good to see _you_. And unexpected. Which I kind of only like when it's you. What brings you to Pittsburgh?”

“The possibility of an unexpected engagement. At the Pittsburgh Opera.”

Sid turned and stared, his hand motionless on the gear shaft. “I thought you had some time off.”

“I do. But when Bradley called and told me about this, I thought I'd fly down and see if we couldn't make it work. The thought of being in Pittsburgh for an extended period was an irresistible lure. Assuming all interested parties can come to an agreement.”

“I know how much you love the Pittsburgh Opera,” Sid said dryly. “Or, the manager, at least.”

“Believe me, he's no competition,” Andrew teased. “You know you're my favorite.”

“Well, thanks. But . . . why give up your time off? You could have come to Pittsburgh anyway. In fact, I was hoping you would.”

“Well, I would have. For a while. But this way, I have an actual reason that I can talk about for being here. Since public scrutiny of me has increased exponentially since last month.” He made a face. “Plus, the director is very talented; I've wanted to work with him for a while. And Caroline is the lead soprano; that's how she got the role at the last minute in November. So: all things considered, I thought that the benefits outweighed the inconveniences. Not to mention that the thought of being able to sing you to sleep every night (well, every night you're here) was an inducement I could not ignore.”

Sid flushed with pleasure. And anticipation. “Well, I'm thrilled. Honestly. I think it's only fair to warn you, though: the postseason starts soon. Things will get . . . intense.”

“Understood. And it's only fair to warn _you_ that it's a new role for me, and I'm learning it quickly, so it'll be intense on my side too. You should feel free to kick me out if I become unbearable.”

“Oh, sure. I can just see myself doing that.” Sid glanced over. “I haven't stopped smiling since you told me you were coming.”

“ _Merci du compliment, mon oie._ ” He reached over and squeezed Sid's knee; Sid let his hand drop and rest on top of Andrew's.

“Are you hungry?”

“Starved. Should we stop somewhere?”

Sid shook his head. “Tommy said he'd get something. And before you ask: I told him chicken or fish.”

“You take such good care of me. How is Tommy?”

“He's good. Racking up points: it's kind of unbelievable.” He shook his head again. “Coach tried out a line of him, me, and Geno at practice the other day. To quote your cousin Eli: it was smoking!”

Andrew laughed. “Will he ever use the three of you together? In a game, I mean?”

“Maybe. He doesn't put Geno and me together all that often, but if it's an important game, he might.” He put on his turn signal. “Tommy offered to make himself scarce tonight. I told him he didn't have to.”

“Well, good; I'd like to see him. And if he's buying dinner, I'd feel guilty if you turned around and sexiled him.”

“Sexiled? Is that a word?”

“According to the Internet, it is.”

Sid made a face. “I told him I thought we could control ourselves.”

“We can try. I make no promises, however; I spent most of the plane ride thinking about your impressive ass. You're not playing tomorrow, are you?”

“Nope.”

“Good. I have plans.”

Sid shifted in his seat. “I really love it when you have plans. Want to be more specific?”

“With pleasure. The bruising on my face is finally gone, and the crack in my cheekbone is healed, or sealed, or whatever cracks like that do. So, since my face is no longer sore, my plan begins with you sitting on it. For as long as is humanly possible. Sidney, slow down: you don't want to get a ticket.”

Sid looked at the speedometer, winced, and stepped on the brake. “I don't know if I can do that without getting really loud.”

“I know. That's part of the fun. You're not going to feel inhibited because Tommy's down the hall, are you? Because if so, then we'll just go to sleep.”

“Well, when you put it that way . . . fuck that!”

**********

“So, what's news on your hockey concert, Ace?” Tommy asked, reaching for some more kung pao shrimp and deftly batting away Sid's stabbing chopstick. “Sharing is caring, Sid.”

“Well, I suppose the biggest news is that, as of this morning, and thanks to the early lead of a couple of insanely generous Penguins, Mom and Dad's donation has been matched. And that's not counting donations made to other charities. It was worth every penny having that website set up; people could choose any hockey charity they wanted, anywhere. I think it blunted a lot of criticism. Not that we're not getting some. Of course. Anyway, Ovechkin's foundation—which, frankly, I think is actually some poor beleaguered front-office functionary of the Caps—has to handle everything related to the money, thank God; they're sending out a press release about the donation being matched in the next couple of days, or so I'm told. I think members of every single NHL team contributed something.” He laughed. “The Bruins gave a ton. And sent Mom and Dad an invitation to sit in the box for any game of their choosing. I think they're trying to woo your biggest fan away from you, Sidney.”

“They can try,” Sid said complacently. “It won't work.”

“Probably not. God, I still think about the look on Ovechkin's face when I came out with that 'Totally Crosby' line at the press conference. It was delicious. And almost makes up for all of the nightmares he's caused me. Almost.” He took a swallow of his beer. “Actually, he and I are getting along better. We've reached an understanding of sorts.”

“You're kidding.”

“Not at all. We had a long talk recently. He asked me what the real reason I wanted to give the concert was.” And Andrew got such a look of mischief on his face, that Sid had to laugh.

“What the hell did you say?”

“I asked him, 'Would you believe me if I told you that I'm dating someone in the NHL, and this is our way of being able to see each other?' And of course, he said no. Actually, he said,” and Andrew switched to Ovechkin's voice and boomed, “' _No!_ '”

Both Sid and the rookie snickered.

“So I told him about _Babushka_ Svetlana, and the stories she used to tell me about Russia, how much she missed being there (even if she never wanted to go back), and how the songs she taught me are what got me into singing in the first place. And he believed me. Which is a good thing, because all of that is true. And then I remembered something Svetlana said to me once about Russian men, so I told him that if he ever sprang something like that press conference on me again, I would break both his arms. And thanks to that ridiculous ninja tenor footage that Zhenya sent him (and don't think I don't know whose idea _that_ was, Sidney), he believed that too. But what really clinched things is that I called his mother in Russia. And we had a lovely talk. After which, she called him and told him to stop being an asshole. Or words to that effect. And since his mother is one of the scariest people I have ever spoken to in my entire life, and I include my mother _and_ her mother in that group, he obeyed.”

Sid and the rookie exchanged glances. “Scarier than your mom?”

“Much.”

“I can't imagine,” Tommy said frankly.

“Well, take my word for it then.”

Sid was curious. “What reason did you give his mother for calling?”

“To ask about songs from his childhood. Which actually _was_ the reason; the other stuff was a bonus.” He spooned a little more rice—brown, of course; Sid had to restrain himself from sneering—onto his plate. “The best thing about this concert is that I'm learning a lot about folk songs. Well, and children's songs and lullabies too. From a lot of different places. Many of them are lovely. Charming, even. And many of them suit my voice to a fare-thee-well, which is great. The worst thing about this concert, other than the publicity, is that it's a logistical nightmare. It's only open to members of the NHL and their guests, but we are now talking upwards of four hundred people; I never in my wildest dreams expected that. Bradley is going nuts finding an appropriate venue. He actually suggested looking into the theater at Caesar's Palace; I told him that I was _not_ Celine Dion, thank you very much.” He sighed. “I am going to have to pay him a fortune for all of the extra work he's doing. Because of course, I'm donating all of my time and my fee, but I still have to pay him. It wouldn't be fair, otherwise.”

“I still can't believe your parents are giving half a million,” Tommy said.

“Well, it's actually SCE that is. I realize it's a subtle distinction, which most of the time I ignore since the two of them essentially _are_ SCE, but I suppose I need to be more careful with my words. God forbid I should slip up in front of a microphone; I've already had to deal with more shit than I want to admit to this year. Anyway: SCE is worth a _lot_ ; it has an actual budget for charitable donations. They did very well last year, and this year looks like it'll be even better—due, or so I'm told, to the music player. Which is kind of amazing; _nobody_ expected it to be such a success. I mean, _I_ knew that musicians would like it, because of the way you can categorize things, and there's no denying that it's well-made, and the sound is great—but it's also expensive. Still, the demand for it is incredible: fueled, I strongly suspect, by all of the free publicity it's getting from you guys. I don't know how many teams have contacted SCE about getting special editions like yours; Mom told marketing to play hard to get.” He eyed Sidney slyly. “They're deciding everything on a case-by-case basis; for some reason, she seems reluctant to sell to the Flyers.”

Sid beamed. “When are my adoption papers going to be ready?”

**********

Once the kitchen was clean, Andrew said, “Well, I'm heading up. You coming, Sidney?”

Before Sid could answer, Tommy said, “Not yet. But I'll bet he's going to.”

Andrew started laughing and Sid . . . did too. He couldn't help himself. Of course, he also couldn't help blushing.

Grinning widely, Tommy waved them away. “Have a good night, guys. Oh, and guys? Please don't hold back on my account. Seriously. I bought a new bottle of lube just for the occasion.”

This time, even Andrew blushed.

**********

They didn't hold back.

**********

The next morning, it was Tommy who blushed.

**********

Over coffee and tea, Sid asked Andrew, “What do you think the chances are that you'll take the job? And will you be staying? I mean, will you just jump into rehearsals, or will you go home first?”

Andrew grinned at him. “Well, to be frank, after last night, I think I'd agree to anything to stay in Pittsburgh.”

Sid tried not to preen. Too much. The rookie, who had regained most of his usual aplomb, snorted. Loudly.

“As for your other questions: I don't know. I'd rather get started right away, but I will need clothes. And stuff. I'm sure Mom and Dad would pack things for me, though, and I can always buy a few things to tide me over. That's a very long-winded way of saying that I guess I'll have to play it by ear. Why do you ask?”

Sid put down his tea. “Because, if there's a chance you'll be staying, I want to give you your birthday present now.”

“Sidney: my birthday's not until July.”

“I know that. But I'm pretty sure this is something you could use now. And I don't want to wait, because you might get yourself one today, and that would make things . . . complicated.”

“I might get myself one _today_? I can't imagine what . . . all right, I'm officially intrigued.”

Good. “So you want your present?”

“Sure.”

Sid stood up and held out his hand. Andrew took it, and Sid led him down the hall.

“Okay: close your eyes. No peeking.”

“Would I do that?”

“I'm on to you, Sasha: you can be sneaky. No peeking. Or any other word that means looking. In any of the seventeen languages you speak. Before I say you can. You promise?”

“I promise. But it's clear that I'm going to have to come up with some new tactics.”

Sid smothered a grin. “Okay. Are your eyes closed?”

“They are. And they will remain so. Until you say otherwise.”

“Good.” Taking a deep breath, Sid opened the door and led Andrew in. He arranged Andrew right where he wanted him, and then, taking another deep breath, he said, “You can look now.”

Andrew opened his eyes slowly. At first. When he realized what he was looking at, they shot open wider than Sid could ever remember seeing before.

And then Andrew squealed. Honest to God _squealed_.

“Oh my God, oh my God, oh my fucking God! Sidney!” He reached out to touch, and Sid saw that his hand was trembling. His heart swelled.

“You like it?”

“Do I _like_ it? Are you _insane_? Well, yes, you _are_ , but. . . . May I try it? Please?”

“Of course you can!”

Andrew pulled out the bench and sat down. And played a few notes. Then a scale. Then a ripple of notes in a kind of cascade. “Oh my God. It sounds beautiful! And it's tuned perfectly!” He played some more, and then opened his mouth and started singing. 

> _Oh, come il cor di giubilo_
> 
> _Esulta in questo instante!_

When he finished, he touched the keys lightly. And then he leapt off the bench and tackled Sid. Literally. The next thing Sid knew he was flying through the air. He landed on top of the couch, and Andrew landed on top of him. And started raining kisses on him. Kisses interspersed with half-incoherent rambling.

“You dear . . . sweet . . . incredible . . . _goose_! I _never_ . . . in my entire _life_ . . . I can't believe . . . oh, Sidney! It's so wonderful! And so are you! Oh my God, I'm . . . so fucking happy!” And then he burst into tears.

Sid patted his back, and held him tightly until he stopped crying. He felt a little like crying himself.

“Oh God,” Andrew said thickly; “I don't suppose you have a handkerchief.”

“Nope,” Sid admitted. “Sorry.”

Andrew shook his head. “Don't be. Oh Sidney.” He sat up, and looked from Sid to the piano and back. “You've . . . undone me.” He sniffled. “Gah! Come on; I don't want to drip on anything.” He held out his hand; Sid took it and let himself be led back to the kitchen. Where Tommy was waiting. With a box of tissues.

“Here, Ace,” he said. And to Sid: “I'm guessing it was a big hit?”

Sid nodded. He was probably grinning like an idiot, but he really didn't care.

“The biggest,” Andrew said, reaching for another tissue. “That's not just a piano; it's the Platonic ideal of a piano!”

“I'm guessing that's a good thing.”

“Not just a good thing: the best. Jesus Christ, Sidney.” He threw the used tissues away and then swept Sid up in a hug. “Thank you. A thousand times, thank you.”

“You're welcome. Use it in good health. Often.”

“I certainly hope so. God, you extravagant thing, you.”

Sid affected nonchalance. “It was cheaper than paying you what I owe you for all of my private concerts.”

Andrew raised an eyebrow. “No, it wasn't.”

“It really, really, wasn't,” Sid admitted. “But . . . it was worth every penny if it makes you happy.”

“It does. It so does.” Andrew looked at the clock. “Christ, I'm going to be late.” He hugged Sid again. “Have a good practice. You too, Tommy.”

“Thanks, Ace. Good luck with your meeting.”

“Thanks. It'll be fine; I don't really care what they offer me at this point. But I suppose I should get going—even though all I want to do is curl up with my present. You're sure you don't mind my taking your car, Sidney?”

Sid shook his head. “It's Tommy's turn to drive.”

“Well, okay.” Andrew picked up the keys. “What time will you be home?”

“Not too late.”

“Good.”

“Why?”

Andrew leaned in for one final kiss. “I thought you might like to help me break in the piano. Properly.” His tone left absolutely no doubt what he meant; Sid was grinning foolishly as Andrew strode out of the room.

“It's not that I'm not happy for you, Sid,” Tommy said as he put their mugs in the dishwasher, “but I'd kind of like to point out that I'm only human. And I don't need to go into the playoffs with a strained wrist.”

“Wear earplugs,” Sid said. Still grinning.

 


	23. Chapter 23

Sid was lying in the medical area taking stock. He was out. There was no doubt in his mind about that; he could still hear the crunch of his collarbone. As if the pain weren't reminder enough. He managed to stifle a moan as one of the trainers finished removing most of his gear, and several more through the brief examination that followed. Once he was alone, he closed his eyes and tried not to feel defeated—but fuck it, he had been. Again. And in the first game. The first fucking game of the first fucking round.

“Sidney?”

Sid felt . . . oh, all sorts of things. Relief predominated. He opened his eyes.

“Hi.”

Andrew sank to his knees next to the gurney. “I really need to give you a kiss. Where doesn't it hurt?”

“There aren't a lot of choices,” he admitted. He extended his good hand an inch or so, and Andrew lowered his lips to it. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome. I'm sorry, Sidney.”

Sid didn't pretend to misunderstand. “So am I.” After a moment, he closed his eyes again. “I'm glad you're here. I half-expected you to be here when they brought me in.”

“I got all turned around. Sorry.”

Sid opened one eye. There had been something. . . . He let it go for now.

The team doctor walked back in, with Mario close behind him. One look at their faces told Sid everything he needed to know.

“Hospital?”

The doctor nodded. “X-rays. Just to confirm, though. There's not much doubt, but we want to rule out anything else.”

Sid didn't even bother to protest. Moving his head slightly, and biting back another moan, he said to Mario, “Any chance of avoiding cameras?”

“I doubt it, Kid. We can wait until the third period begins, but they're camped outside. As is most of the team.”

Shit. “Tell them to stop wasting their time and to go get ready to play.”

“Oh, they're ready.” Mario sounded grim. He hesitated, and then said, “And you have another visitor. And . . . I think you should see him. Otherwise . . . let's just say, it's not going to be pretty out there.”

Sid groaned. “Okay.” Mario left.

Andrew patted his hand, and then stood up. “I'll make myself scarce.” But before he made it past the curtain, Mario was back . . . with Burakovsky. Who took one look at Andrew and recoiled.

“Excuse me,” Andrew said in his most polite tone, and walked out. Burakovsky tracked him for a few seconds before he swallowed convulsively and turned to Sid.

“Crosby. I'm . . . sorry.”

“It was a legal hit.”

“I know. Not what I'm apologizing for. I acted like asshole after the hit.”

Sid was in too much pain to deal with this. “I don't even know what that means.”

“I maybe . . . celebrated a little. Shouldn't have done. The hit is the game; that's not.”

Sid looked searchingly at him for a couple of seconds, and then said, “Apology accepted. Mario, will you please tell the guys? And make them listen; we don't need any . . . distractions.”

“Of course, Sid. This way.” And he ushered Burakovsky out.

After a second or two, Sid said, “Andrew. Get your busted ass back in here.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about, Sidney.”

“You most certainly do. What did you do to him?”

“Nothing. I told you I got all turned around. Somehow, I ended up in the visitor's area. So, as long as I was there, I had a little chat with the young man who just left. With his captain's permission. And in his presence, actually. That's all.”

“Did you threaten him?”

“Who? Burakovsky? Absolutely not. Ovechkin, on the other hand? Maybe a little. He seemed . . . reluctant to let me have a word. For some reason, he thought I might get violent.” Andrew smiled. Widely. “I can't imagine how he got that idea. Perhaps from watching security footage. From Chicago. Although how he got a copy is beyond me.”

Sid closed his eyes again. “Don't make me laugh. It hurts too much.”

“My poor goose.” Andrew dropped to his knees again, and rested his head against Sid's hand. “If it's any consolation to you, Ovechkin agreed with every word I said to that creature. Well, every word he understood, anyway. How dare that twerp make a fist pump after hitting you? When you were already down? And obviously badly hurt? Play hockey on the ice, I told him, and save your gloating for the dressing room, although frankly, I doubt it would have gotten a very good reception in there either, judging from the way Alex was treating him.”

Sid moved his hand a little, so he could touch Andrew's cheek. “Thanks.”

“Well, you're welcome. Not that I did anything but say a few words. That he badly needed to hear, and which, I will confess, I badly needed to say. I know you don't need anybody to defend you, Sidney, and I promise you, I did not lose, and would not have lost, my temper. But what he did was not good hockey, and that . . . offended me. And for the record: his coming here was not my idea. Nor my suggestion. A forced apology is no apology, in my book.”

Sid knew that Andrew was telling him the truth. But judging from the way Burakovsky had reacted? There was more to the story. However, he couldn't make himself care; that Andrew had defended him (which he had, whatever he tried to tell himself), was enough. “Well, let's hope the guys listen. Maybe you should go have a few words with them.”

“If they won't listen to Mario, they won't listen to me. Besides: I don't want to leave you alone.”

“You might be surprised. But thanks.” Sid swallowed. “Can you come to the hospital with me?”

“I'll certainly join you there. But I doubt they'll let me actually go with you.”

“They will if I insist. And I do.”

Andrew bit his lip.

“Don't say it, Sasha. I know what you're thinking. I don't care.”

“Yes, you do. Or you will.”

Before Sid could find the strength to argue, the team medic came back in. “Sid, are you ready?”

“I want Andrew to come with me.”

Without even looking at Andrew, the medic shook his head. “I sympathize, Sid, but he can't. He's not a relative, and he doesn't hold your medical proxy. Legally, he can't ride in the ambulance with you.”

Sid stared at him for a moment. And then said, “Fuck.” And closed his eyes.

Andrew kissed his palm. “Sidney: I'll go get your clothes and things from your stall. And I'll even put your ghastly lucky cup back. And then I'll come to the hospital. After I sterilize my hands.”

Sid sighed. “Okay.” He didn't open his eyes, and after a moment, he felt Andrew stand up. And pat his hand again. The medic said, “He's ready.” Sid heard some heavy footsteps enter the room; a jerk, he was raised, and then the gurney started moving.

**********

After Andrew got in the driver's seat, he closed his eyes for a few seconds and took a couple of deep breaths. Then he opened his eyes and looked over at Sid.

“At the risk of being accused of idiocy: how are you doing?”

“I'll be better once I'm home. In bed. With you next to me.” He carefully extended his hand; fuck, every little motion hurt. “I'm sorry I was such a prick back at Consol.”

Andrew took his hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “You weren't a prick. And even if you had been, I would have understood. I'm sorry I couldn't go with you.”

“It's not your fault, Sasha. I'm sorry I took my disappointment out on you.”

“Stop apologizing, Sidney. I mean it.” He started the car. “Let's go home and go to bed.”

“Okay.” Then Sid had a horrible thought. “Oh, fuck! What if I can't sleep? What if I keep you awake?”

“They gave you sedatives, didn't they? Or opiates, or whatever they are? You'll take them, and we'll see what happens. Don't borrow trouble, _mon oie;_ you have enough on your plate already.” He opened the window, and handed his ticket and a credit card to the attendant. “I already spoke with the opera house and told them I'd be late for rehearsal tomorrow. Well, today. We'll figure it out.” Taking his card back, he said, “Thank you,” tossed it in the cup holder, and drove through.

“I took the liberty of turning your phone off,” he said after a bit. “It rang at least ten times in the few minutes it took me to pack up your clothes. You need to call your sister. And your mother.”

“It's too late to call now.”

“Probably. But you should send a text now, Sidney. If they're still awake, that will let them know you're all right. Which should buy you some space. Or time. Sorry; I'm not exactly thinking straight at the moment.”

Sid sighed. “You're probably right. But I really can't type right now.”

“Well, when we get home, tell me what you want to say, and I'll type it.” He hesitated, and then said, “Sidney. Dad and Mom told me to call them when you were released, no matter what time it was. If you don't want to deal with it, be honest and tell me so, and I'll call later. But I did promise, so. . . .”

“Of course you should call them, Sasha. Put it on speaker and I'll say hello. And convince them I'm not dead.”

“I doubt you have the strength for that, _mon oie_. But if you're sure. . . .” He fumbled his phone out of his lapel pocket.

The call was answered before even the first ring was over. “It's about time, Sasha,” Daniel said—and his voice had a real bite to it. “What's going on down there? Your mother's been restraining me from hacking the hospital, but even she's weakening. How's Sidney?”

“Hi Daniel,” Sid said. “I'm okay.”

“Sidney! Thank God! Lis, Sidney's on the phone! And don't you lie to me, Sidney Crosby! You are not fine! What did the doctors say? Do you trust them? Maybe you should come up here; I'm sure the care at Mass General is better than what you're getting there, if the security on their IT gateway is any indication! Wait your turn, Lis!” There was a crackle, and then Elisabeth's voice came through the speaker.

“Sidney. How are you really? Is there anything we can do? Anything at all?” And evidently, they were on speaker now too, because Daniel spoke over her, “Do you need anything, my boy?”

The concern in both their voices was so real, and so . . . immediate, that Sid felt his heart swell. He opened his mouth to say something soothing . . . but what came out was, “It was the first game! The first fucking game of the first round!”

**********

By unspoken agreement, they sat in front of Sid's house for a few minutes. Finally, Andrew sighed and said, “Are you ready?”

“I guess. Do I look like I've been crying?”

“Do you honestly think Tommy is going to care? If he's even awake.”

“Trust me, he's still up,” Sid said. “And . . . fuck, I guess I don't. All right, Sasha; let's do this. You're going to have to help me.”

“I haven't forgotten, Sidney. But before we go in, I have something to say to you.”

“What?”

“Thank you for letting me help you. Thank you for not insisting you can do it all by yourself, and hurting yourself even more.”

Sid looked at Andrew for a second or two, and then actually smiled. “You're welcome. But be warned, Sasha: I'll probably act different in a day or two.”

“I'll take what I can get, then.”

**********

Sid did manage some sleep, which was a good thing, because oblivion, however helped by drugs it was, was preferable to trying to make sense of the thoughts that were surging in his brain like some kind of tidal wave in an old disaster movie. Of course, what had really helped him fall asleep was the fact that Andrew had cuddled up next to him, rested his hands on a couple of pain-free places he'd found unerringly, and had sung, softly and sweetly, for at least half an hour. And even though Sid knew that he should have let Andrew save his voice for rehearsals, he let himself accept the gift he knew it was without protest.

He loved Andrew. There was no longer any doubt. Not that there'd been any for months, but he finally could say it plainly in his own head without quaking. Someday, he supposed, he'd be able to say it out loud. Not that Andrew had said the words either—at least, not that Sid knew, although given Andrew's habit of mouthing off in foreign languages, he couldn't say for sure—but, as his grandma always said, actions speak louder than words, and the way he'd taken care of Sid—well, every time they were together, actually, but especially the night before—spoke volumes.

He heard a faint click, and looked over to see his bedroom door opening slowly. Tommy poked his head in, and made a gesture that Sid interpreted as, “You need anything?” Sid considered, decided he did have to pee, and beckoned him over. They actually managed to get Sid sitting on the edge of the bed before Andrew woke up.

“Let me help,” he said groggily.

“Go back to sleep,” Sid ordered. And played his trump card. “You have to work today.”

Andrew rolled his eyes, in a pathetic approximation of his usual expressiveness, and pulled one of his many pillows over his head.

By the time they got downstairs, Sid was regretting—deeply—the whole endeavor. But he managed to pee without mishap, and they got him settled in his spot on one of his Christmas couches.

“I'll go make you some tea. You want drugs first?”

“Don't I need to take them with food?”

“I'll check the list; Ace left it out on the counter. Knowing him, he probably underlined the important parts. And left specific instructions on how to make toast.”

“Can you hand me the remote first?”

“Sid. You don't want to look. Trust me: you're everywhere. You really want to relive every injury you've ever had? 'Cause that's what's on every fucking channel.”

“Maybe not,” Sid decided after a moment. “But . . . could you get me my phone? I should listen to my messages. And call my mom and dad.” Maybe.

“Call your sister first. I'm getting tired of the death threats she keeps sending me.”

As soon as he had his phone, he sent Taylor a text: “ _U up?”_

His phone rang almost instantly.

“Who the hell sent me that text last night? It wasn't you; it had vowels in it.”

“Andrew.”

“How is the hooker?”

“Aren't you tired of that joke yet?”

“Never. I've got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

Sid groaned. “The bad news.”

“Mom is on her way to Pittsburgh. Like, literally on her way.”

Fuck. “What's the good news?”

“She's alone.”

That's something, Sid thought. But when Taylor snorted, he realized he'd said it out loud.

“You realize I'm not in the habit of defending Dad. But he was genuinely upset last night. For you, I mean. Until the third period started, and the Pens didn't murder Burakovsky; he ranted about that for an hour. Why'd you call the guys off? And I can't believe they listened. Especially Geno.”

“It was a legal hit.”

“Fuck that, Squid.”

“And he apologized. In front of Mario.”

“Big deal.”

“It _was_ a big deal; you didn't see him. Can we not talk about this anymore? I hurt, Tay.”

It was probably the nickname that did it, but Taylor's voice softened. “Okay. Hey, tell your rookie: nice goal in the third.”

“It was nice, wasn't it? Andrew showed me a clip last night, while we were waiting at x-ray. Too bad it wasn't enough.”

“Well, it was only the first game. Which sucks big time for you, but maybe the Pens can advance without you. Anyway: what are you going to do about Mom?”

“What can I do?”

There was a pause, and then Taylor said, “My first impulse was to tell you to get your boy toy out of there and head for the hills. But given the fact that Mom'll be alone . . . I think you should just let it play out. I mean, come on, Sid: obviously, you're serious about Andrew. Really serious. And from what you tell me, he can handle Mom. Dad's another story.”

Sid rolled his eyes. “Andrew could handle Dad. The question is: can Dad handle Andrew? No, actually, the real question is: can I handle the two of them? I don't want to be between them, Tay; I love them both.” And then Sid bit his lip. Hard.

The silence on the other end of the phone was deafening. Finally, Taylor said, “Well, that answers that question. Good for you, Sid. And stop thinking 'I can't believe I said that.'”

Sid laughed shakily. “I don't think I can. I . . . I've never said it out loud before.”

“Well, maybe you should. I really have to meet this guy. Soon.”

“I'd like that.” And it was the truth, Sid realized. “You'll like him. I mean, you kind of already do; I can tell. And you'll _really_ like his parents. Anyway: I wasn't going to talk about it, but let me tell you what Andrew did after I got hit last night. . . .”

**********

Geno showed up before Sid had even taken his first sip of tea. He and Sid exchanged glances. And then Geno sighed, nodded, and sat down.

“Want some tea?” Tommy offered.

“I'm get.”

“Don't bother; I'm up.” When he got back, the three of them discussed strategy until it was nearly time to leave for practice. Which was going to be long. And difficult. And which Sid was required to miss, even as a spectator.

Andrew poked his head in and said, “Good morning.” He gave Sid an appraising glance, which evidently Sid passed, because he winked, and said, “I need coffee desperately. Anybody need anything?”

Nobody did, so Andrew left—vocalizing as he walked towards the kitchen. Geno smiled fondly after him.

“Best thing you ever do, Sid. Off ice, anyway.”

Sid nodded—well, started to nod. The pain killers hadn't kicked in completely yet, so he stopped. He wondered if he had enough time to tell them about Andrew's few words, when the doorbell rang.

“I'll get it,” Andrew called out.

For a moment, Sid panicked—and then he realized there was no way his mom could be there that early. Which left the question: who was it?

All of a sudden, Andrew swore. In English, which was never a good sign. And said, very loudly, “Incoming!”

And then a booming laugh answered Sid's question.

He closed his eyes. And said, with all of the sincerity he could muster, “Fuck my fucking life. Seriously.”

**********

“Sidney Crosby!” Ovechkin announced as he appeared in the doorway. “These for you!” And he thrust a huge bouquet in Sid's direction; Sid thought they were lilies.

Narrowing his eyes, he said, “I'm not dead yet, you know.” But he gingerly started to reach out to take them . . . and then, forcibly reminded, stopped. Ovechkin put them on the couch next to him. “Thank you. Alex.”

“You welcome. Zhenya! And the Tommy gun!” At Tommy's blank stare, Ovechkin frowned. “Is not right word? From old American movies? Gun that go ba-ba-ba-ba-ba fast fast fast? Like you make goal last night? Holtby cry later,” he confided; all three Pens snorted in unison.

Turning to Andrew, Ovechkin said, _"M_ _oy tenor!”_

Andrew rolled his eyes. “I'm not your tenor, Alex. In fact, I'm not your anything.”

“Hah!” Then Ovechkin frowned. “Your underwear: _uzhasno! Skuchno!”_ He turned to Sid. “How you stand such boring choice?”

Well, as long as things were out in the open. . . . “I like to take it off him,” Sid said blandly. Which made everybody else in the room start roaring, Ovechkin, of course, most loudly.

“Sidney Crosby! You fun! Everybody lie all these years! Zhenya, you hold out on me!” Geno said something in Russian that made both Ovechkin and Andrew laugh.

“Now! You all go away. I talk with Sid alone.” He made shooing motions. Geno and Tommy looked at Sid; he sighed, but nodded. Andrew, on the other hand, advanced a few steps and looked directly at Ovechkin.

“Play nice, Alex.” His eyes—and his tone—were sharp enough to shave every playoff beard in the league. “You understand me?”

“Of course, of course!”

After a final minatory look, Andrew walked over, bent down, and kissed Sid lightly. “I'm going to go have my coffee. Call me if you need anybody thrown out.” He left the room, saying, “Have a good practice, guys.”

Geno and Tommy, who had been watching his every move, looked at each other. Then they both snickered, stood up, and followed him out.

And then there were two.

**********

“I thought he'd never leave,” Andrew remarked as he walked in again, fully dressed this time. “What the hell did he want?”

“Believe it or not: just to talk.”

“You're kidding.”

“I'm not. If he had any other agenda, he hid it so well that I didn't notice it. And considering the fact that we basically only talked about three things, I can't think of what it could be.” Sid patted the couch next to him. “Can you sit for a while?”

“I can. And I will. Well, I might snuggle a bit, actually. Is that okay?”

“It is.” Sid sighed; “You'll have to snuggle for the both of us. For a while, I guess.”

“You'll make it up to me. So, what did you two talk about?”

“Burakovsky. You were right, by the way: he was fucking pissed.”

“I told you so. He can be the world's most annoying person, but at least he's not a big fan of s _chadenfreude._ ”

“What the hell does that mean?”

“Taking pleasure in another person's pain.”

Sid stared. “You're kidding. There's a word for that?”

“In German, there's a word for everything. _Schadenfreude_ is different from sadism, because as I understand it, sadism is deriving pleasure from _causing_ somebody pain, and _schadenfreude_ is simply getting off on knowing that somebody else is suffering. The pain doesn't necessarily have to be physical, I believe. What else did you two talk about?

“You.”

“Me? Really?”

“Why are you so surprised?”

“I . . . don't know. What did he say?”

“He thinks you're scary.” Sid laughed a little. “He said you swooped into their locker room like the angel of death.”

Andrew burst out laughing. “I can just hear him. And for the record: I did no such thing.”

“You didn't?” Sid pretended to think. “You know, as much as it pains me to admit it, I think I'm actually going to go with Ovechkin on this one.”

The eyebrow rose on schedule. “Oh, really?”

“Really. After all, he could see you. And _I_ saw Burakovsky's face when he walked in and saw you.” Sid's grin was a little crooked. “You underestimate yourself, Sasha. Do you have any idea what it takes to put a look of terror on the face of someone who plays hockey? Do you really think Alex Ovechkin meekly accepts threats from just anyone?” He paused. “I actually can't believe I just used the words 'Ovechkin' and 'meek' right next to each other.”

Andrew laughed. “Well, believe what you wish, Sidney. What else did Alex have to say?”

“I will. And he told me that I was lucky to have found you. And that he wouldn't say anything to anybody about us. And he also said that the next time you say 'Would you believe?' to him, he's going to.”

“Well. An inestimable gift, I'm sure. So: Burakovsky. Me. What's the third thing you talked about?”

Sid looked at Andrew as if he'd lost his mind. “Hockey, of course. Christ, Sasha, he was here for over an hour; what else would we talk about?”

“Forgive me, please; I'll be kind to myself and blame it on too little sleep.”

“Well, don't let it happen again.”

Andrew stuck his tongue out.

“What time's your rehearsal?”

“It started at 9, but I told them I'd be late. Are you sure you'll be okay by yourself until Tommy gets back?”

“I'll be fine. If you'll help me to the bathroom before you go.”

“Of course I will.” Andrew bit his lip, but then said, “Well, if you're sure you don't mind, then I'll leave soon; I really would prefer not to miss the entire morning.”

“I'm sure. So leave whenever. Except: there's something I need to tell you first.”

“Okay. What?”

Sid studied his face for a minute. He did look tired. But . . . well, there was nothing he could do about it now. “I spoke with Taylor this morning.”

“How is she?” Sid could tell from his voice that Andrew really liked Taylor.

“She's good, I guess; we actually didn't talk for all that long. She told me that my mom is on her way here.”

Andrew's face changed. “You mean, on her way right now? When is she getting here?”

“Well, she'd already left when I spoke with Tay, so probably early afternoon. If I remember the flights right. And,” Sid held up his hand to stop Andrew before he could say anything, “I want your promise that you will come home after your rehearsal, and that you will act just like you always do. I want her to meet you, and I want her to meet the real you. My boyfriend. Who walks in and kisses me. Who asks about my day. Who teases me. Who makes me dinner . . . okay, actually, maybe not that; Mom will probably start cooking the minute she gets here. But the point I'm trying to make here is that to me, my mom feels like a guest in this house; you don't. So: do I have your promise?”

Andrew studied Sid. Intently. Finally, he opened his mouth and said, “You do. Up to a point. I will come home, and I will do my level best to act as I would ordinarily. But if things go south, Sidney, I reserve the right to leave. You don't need any more turmoil or pain right now. If in my judgment, things would be better for you if I went elsewhere, I will. Can you accept that?”

Sid almost didn't have to think. “Only if I agree that it would be better for _us_ if you left. And I promise that if you feel really, really uncomfortable with her around, I will agree. Okay?”

Another pause. “Agreed.” Then his eyes narrowed: “Did you consider not telling me beforehand?”

“I did,” Sid said honestly. “For about two seconds.”

His face relaxing, Andrew said, “Well. That's certainly within the margin of error. Oh, fuck a duck, Sidney: more stress is the last thing you need.”

“Sasha, if I could hug you, I would. So take this thought with you: I _want_ my mom to meet you. And Taylor wants to meet you too.”

“Well, I've wanted to meet Taylor for some time. Maybe this summer. Okay, let's get you up and into the bathroom.”

As they were walking down the hall, Sid told Andrew, “I just remembered something else Ovechkin said.”

“What?”

“He really does hate your underwear. He said he's going to buy you some new stuff. Something suitable, I think he said.”

Andrew stopped short. “That package will go immediately into the trash. Or, better, a bonfire. Unopened.”

“Oh, fuck, Sasha: don't make me laugh.”

**********

The meeting between Andrew and his mother was . . . not at all what Sid expected. To say the least. Because Sid and his mother had already had “the talk.”

Of course, the impetus for “the talk” had not been exactly . . . auspicious. Because his mother had gone into hyper-Mom mode five minutes after she'd arrived. She'd settled him into bed for a nap. And then decided to do laundry.

“Since when do you wear underwear like this?” she'd asked him. And then, inspecting the label, she added, “These aren't even your size. Are these Tommy's? Why are they in here?” Before she'd even finished that last sentence, awareness was dawning on her face.

“No, they're not Tommy's; I doubt they'd fit him either. Mom. Sit down for a minute. . . .”

**********

When Andrew came home from rehearsal (he breezed in and only someone who had studied him at every possible opportunity would have been able to tell how tense he was), things were fine. At first. Sid introduced them, they both said how pleased they were to meet each other, and Sid . . . was hopeful.

And then his mom planted her hands on her hips. Which was never a good sign. And said to Andrew, “Were you ever going to call me?”

And Andrew seemed to know what she was talking about. Which made one of them. And he seemed a little . . . abashed.

“Well, I was working my way up to it. Everybody said I should, but . . . frankly, I didn't want to give anything away. About Sidney and me, I mean. And it felt rather . . . oh, underhanded, I suppose, to call you without talking to Sidney about it first. And honestly: with this unexpected engagement of mine, and the playoffs starting for him, there was never a good time. But I would have, Mrs. Crosby, I promise you.”

She gave him a Mom look. And then, after Andrew had started fidgeting, she said, “I suppose that makes sense. But I was beginning to feel like an outcast!”

“Well, I'm very sorry. Truly.”

“Well, I'm very confused. Truly. Would one of you like to tell me what you're talking about?” If Sid sounded aggrieved, well, he had good reason. Probably.

“It's about the hockey concert. Remember how I told you I called Ovechkin's mother? Well, I've also been speaking to some of the other mothers. Mostly in Canada—since that's where a majority of them live. Finding out about folk songs. And children's songs too: I know I told you that. I want this concert to be fun.”

His mother added, “Sid, you know how some of the mothers get together? And talk on the phone? Well, once one of us knew what he wanted, she spread the word. We've been having a good time; I just wondered when it was going to be my turn.” She gave them both a humorous look. “I have a certain standing to uphold, you know.”

Sid rolled his eyes, and Andrew snickered.

“Well, I do apologize. Again. Everybody's been so helpful. And so nice. I've gotten a lot of good ideas; honestly, I have enough material to sing for hours. Since I obviously can't, I just hope that people aren't disappointed if I don't use their suggestions.”

“From what I've heard, you've made that very clear.” She paused. “You know, one of the things the other mothers and I have been wondering about is why you're going to so much trouble. I . . . know why now, of course—at least, I think I do—but I should tell you that there's been lots of speculation.”

“Well, I'll let your son explain more fully; if you'll excuse me, I need to shower. Several hours ago, actually.” And dropping a quick kiss on the top of Sid's head, Andrew left the room.

They both watched him leave. And then Sid took a deep breath and asked, “So. What do you think?”

His mom didn't answer him for a minute. Then she said, “He's very charming. He has lovely manners. And even though I only met him five minutes ago, I think I like him a lot, Sid. Because I don't think I've ever seen you look as happy off the ice as you did when he walked in. You lit up. And . . . and so did he.”

Sid cleared his throat. “I . . . really, really like him, Mom. Uh, more than like, actually.”

Her eyes filled up; Sid hoped she didn't start crying. “That's a good thing, Sid. I'm glad.” She sighed. “Your father's . . . going to be difficult.”

“I know. But . . . it's my life and my happiness. Right?”

She gave him a very careful hug. “Of course it is, son. And Dad will understand that. It just . . . might take a while.”

Sid and his mother exchanged a look of perfect understanding.

“Well, there's no reason to rush things. At all.”

**********

Sid became even more convinced there was no reason to rush things after supper. They were all sitting in the media room waiting for the second Hawks-Blues game to start, when his father called.

It went okay at first, but then his dad started talking about Burakovsky. And went on and on. And every time Sid tried to change the subject, he got ignored. And Sid got tenser and tenser. So maybe he shouldn't have been so surprised (or so fucking relieved) when Andrew leaned over and plucked the phone out of his hand.

“Mr. Crosby? My name is Alex, and it's my job to take care of your son. And I'm afraid that your conversation is upsetting him, so I'm going to have to end it. Excuse me? Mario Lemieux himself asked me to do my best to make sure your son is comfortable. I'm sure everybody concerned wants your son to heal as quickly as possible, so let's try and remember that healing is as much mental as physical, shall we? Thanks very much, Mr. Crosby.” He ended the call and tossed the phone down on the couch. And muttered, “ _Stronzo._ ”

There was silence from the other couch. And then Sid's mother asked the rookie, “Is he always like that?”

“Yup,” Tommy said cheerfully. “Mrs. Crosby, I could tell you stories! Even Ovechkin does what Andrew says.”

“Button it, Tommy,” Andrew said; he was starting to look uncomfortable. Sid glanced at his mother. Who was studying Andrew. And then she stood up.

“Tommy? Could you help me in the kitchen for a few minutes?”

“Sure thing, Mrs. C.” Somehow, Tommy managed to hold onto his shit-eating grin despite Andrew's murderous glare; Sid was impressed. And if he hadn't been positive that it would hurt, he would have leaned back and laughed his impressive ass off.

Once they were alone, Andrew switched to looking incredibly embarrassed. “I'm sorry,” he said to Sid.

Grinning, Sid said, “No, you're not.”

Stung, Andrew said, “I most certainly am!”

“Not for taking the phone away.”

“No, of course not; every single word I said to him was the truth. Honestly, Sidney, you don't need stress like that. But he's your father; I shouldn't have called him,“ he caught himself, “that.”

“Are you ever going to tell me what that means?”

Before Andrew could say anything, laughter—both male and female—started drifting down the hall.

“Not a chance.”

**********

The Pens went out in game six. Sid was in the press box, feeling isolated and alone; it was opening night, and Andrew wasn't there with him. Couldn't be there with him.

He felt numb. Empty. Useless. Impotent. As he'd watched, he'd been conscious the entire time of the hole his absence caused in the geometry of the team. The Pens had battled valiantly—even Sid had to admit they'd done everything they could—but it wasn't enough. They'd lost. He'd lost.

He should have been down there. And now that it was over: he needed to be. . . .

Moving on autopilot, he excused himself and went to the bathroom. And took out his phone. And hit speed dial seven.

“Simon? I have a big favor to ask. . . .”

**********

Sid heard Andrew come in. Heard the clunk of his keys hit the counter. Heard his steps walk to the media room, pause, and then continue until he reached his music room. Where Sid was sitting on the bench.

Andrew walked in, sank to his knees, and put his head in Sid's lap. “I'm so sorry, Sidney.” Even in the dimness of the room, Sid could tell that the sincerity in his face, and his eyes, matched his tone.

After a moment, Sid said, a little shakily, “Probably not as sorry as I am. But thanks.” He ran his hand over Andrew's hair; Andrew leaned into the touch.

“Is there anything I can do? Anything you need?”

Sid took a deep breath. “Actually, yes. You can get up and sit next to me. And then I need you to understand something.”

“Okay.” Andrew sat down on Sid's better side, took his hand, and waited.

“There's kind of . . . a tradition, I guess. The day after the playoffs end. We go in and clean out our stalls. Get our stuff.” He grimaced. “I can't exactly clean out anything these days. So on the way back I asked Tommy to do it for me. And he said yes.”

“Of course he did.”

Sid laughed mirthlessly. “Of course. Anyway: as captain, I talk to all of the guys. We say goodbye. And then . . . we go home.” He took another breath, and, fixing his eyes on their joined hands, he said, “And this is where I need your understanding. I have to get out of Pittsburgh, Sasha. Tomorrow . . . well, today. I am holding myself together with a thread, and if I don't get out of here, I will . . . lose myself. And I don't think I can . . . endure . . . another loss right now.”

He felt Andrew's hand tighten on his, and waited. But Andrew didn't say anything.

“I realize that this is a real shitty thing for me to do. You gave up most of your time off to work, just so you could be here with me. And now I'm leaving. But. . . .”

“Sidney. It's okay. Truly.” And his tone was so gentle, that it emboldened Sid enough to look at his face. And he saw nothing but understanding. And sympathy. And acceptance. “I admit: I will miss you. But I understand.” He paused for a second, and then shook his head slightly. “Allow me to rephrase. I am, I think, intelligent enough to realize that I cannot fully appreciate what you're going through right now; let me say instead that I understand _you_ well enough to know that you would not use the words you did if you were not absolutely certain that this is what you have to do. So: not that you need it, but you have my blessing. And, of course, my support. And if you want it, my ear. You may tell me anything, _mon oie_ , and I will listen.”

“Oh Sasha,” Sid said brokenly; “I wanted to win the Cup for you.” And he turned, leaned his head against Andrew's, and wept.

**********

When they were finally settled in bed and Andrew had turned out the lights, he asked Sid, “What time will you be leaving?”

“You mean, for Nova Scotia? I don't know yet. I'm kind of ashamed to admit it, but I called Simon and asked him to make the arrangements.”

“Why are you ashamed? There's no shame in asking for help, Sidney. Besides, Simon enjoys being a problem solver, and he especially loves feeling useful.” Sid could hear the smile in his voice when he added, “Tommy shares that last trait with him, I think.”

“I think you're right. You know, he'll probably get his own place next season; I'm going to miss him if he does. Part of me hopes he doesn't.”

“If you want my advice, Sidney, you'll tell him exactly that. I think the two of you work well together. Live well together. Whatever. And it's certainly entertaining. For all three of us.”

“I guess. Maybe I will.” Sid shifted a little. And then, grateful for the dark, he said, “I'm sorry I've been crying so much lately.”

Andrew's reply was so curt, so coarse, and so unlike his usual style, that had he been capable of it, Sid would have laughed.

“It's true, though.”

“You've had more than ample reasons to cry. Good reasons.”

“I suppose. But . . . I think that's only part of the story. I can cry with you . . . because you see me. You know who I am. Remember?”

“I remember.” There was a pause, and then Andrew said, “Want to know something?”

“Sure.”

“In November, when I left here with Mom and Dad? The minute I got into the car, I started crying. It'd been years since I let myself cry in front of them. But the thought of leaving you—of us being apart—was enough to overcome my defenses. I know I still haven't told you what happened to me when I was a teenager—and tonight is definitely _not_ the right time—but part of me got broken then. And I think, Sidney, that you, and having you in my life, are healing me.”

After a few moments, Sid asked slowly, “Do you really mean that?”

“I do.”

“Well . . . thank you. I don't know that I believe it, but it's nice to hear. Maybe when I'm in a better frame of mind, I'll be able to believe it.”

“Well, I hope so. Because it's true.” He cleared his throat. “Excuse me for a second.”

“Is something wrong?”

“Not at all; I simply forgot to gargle.” Andrew threw back the covers and padded into the bathroom.

Sid had thought he'd reached rock bottom. Now he knew what it felt like to be sick with shame.

When Andrew slipped back into bed, Sid said, “Oh Sasha. I'm so sorry. I've been so self-absorbed, I forgot. How did it go tonight?”

Andrew leaned over and gave him a kiss. “I rather think you had a lot on your mind. And it was fine. The audience seemed to like it, at any rate. I don't know that I was at my best—and I'm not just saying that: I literally do not know; I never do, the first time I sing a role. Caroline was excellent, though; at the reception afterwards, when I told her about the game, she said to tell you she's sorry. She asks how you're doing every day.”

“I know; you've been telling me.”

“Well, it bears repeating. You're a very special man. And an exceptionally special goose.”

Sid honked softly. Which earned him another kiss.

“Are you ready for your lullaby?”

“More than ready,” Sid admitted. “But not if your throat is sore. And before you brush me off, be honest: how many times this week have you either thought, or said out loud, 'Sidney, don't overdo?'”

“Too many to count. In my current state, at least. But believe me when I say, I'm fine. And . . . not only do I _want_ to sing to you, Sidney, I rather think I _need_ to. For me, I mean. We won't see each other for a while; I'd like to have the memory.”

“At the risk of sounding like even more of a selfish asshole: any chance of you coming up to Canada some time soon?”

“I'm afraid not. I leave for Vienna two days after I finish here, and I'm there—in Europe, I mean—until practically the end of May. Then I'm back—but I will, no doubt, be frantic with the hockey concert. I hope you'll feel up to attending.”

Sid reached over and placed his good hand on Andrew's chest. “I swear to you, Sasha: if I miss it, it'll be because I'm either dead, or in a locked ward somewhere.”

“For the record, I find neither of those options particularly appealing, Sidney. Anyway: I have some time—not much, but some—right after the concert. Perhaps you can show me your other house then.”

“I'd like that.”

“Good. Now make yourself comfortable—or as comfortable as possible—and I'll give you a preview of something new I'll be singing in Vienna.”

“Okay.” Sid squirmed into his pillow, and let the sound of Andrew's voice sweep him into oblivion. 

> **********
> 
> _Ur parents chartered me a plane!!!_
> 
> _I'm officially jealous._
> 
> _D & E: thank U so much!_
> 
> _You are entirely welcome. We wanted you to be comfortable. Be well._
> 
> _Ill try. Thx._
> 
> _We're thinking of you, my boy. We may go see Sasha this weekend. Do you mind if we paint your kitchen?_
> 
> _Paint away. Thx agn._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although I certainly hope he never sees this (!), I feel as if I need to apologize to André Burakovsky. I wanted somebody young, and not a native English speaker (although I don't remember precisely why at this point), and he fit the bill. Perhaps the fact that the Burakovsky in this fic was so quick to apologize (however improbable that might be in real life, at least during the game) will atone for the way I used his character.


	24. Chapter 24

Sid shared an amused grin with Geno as they watched Andrew pace. No trace of the calm, collected person they were used to was anywhere in evidence. Sid squinted at his watch; 30 seconds to go. 25. 20. 15. 10.

“I cannot _believe_ I agreed to this!”

“You were five seconds early this time.”

“Button it, Crosby. Or you'll have another broken bone.” Andrew stopped, arrested. “Actually, that sounds like exactly the thing. Zhenya: would you go find Ovechkin and drag him here? I think pounding him into goo is just what I need.”

Geno laughed.

“You'll ruin your suit, Ace,” Tommy pointed out. Andrew ignored him in favor of starting to pace again.

“Sasha, you've lost all your subtlety,” Daniel complained from across the room.

“Exactly why _are_ you so nervous, darling? You were calmer before you made your debut. Much calmer.”

“The situation is entirely different. But . . . oh, God!” He sank down into a chair. And then got right back up again. “I don't know what's _wrong_ with me!” He looked truly distressed.

Sid stood and crossed the room. “Sasha. Give me a hug.” When Andrew complied, Sid said, “Now close your eyes. Take deep breaths. I want you to imagine something. When you walk out there, pretend you're not on stage. Pretend you're in a bar. And you won't be alone. You'll be with us. Your mom and dad, and the Pens. And the Hawks. And the Caps. And the Bruins. And the Rangers. And the. . . .”

_“Stronzo!”_

The whole room erupted in laughter; after a second or two, Andrew joined in. Reluctantly.

Sid smiled at him. “Feeling better?”

“Maybe a little. Thanks.”

“Don't mention it.”

“It's just . . . why did a freaking _sports network_ decide it was a good idea to film this?”

Geno spoke up. “Because you raise almost two million for that kids can play hockey. That news. And that good, good thing.”

“I suppose.” He didn't really sound convinced.

Geno rolled his eyes. “Sid: you bring lucky cup? Give to Andrew.”

“You bring that foul object within three feet of me and I'll make you pay for the rest of your life. Which won't be long.” He took another couple of deep breaths, visibly trying to pull himself together. “Okay.” He crossed the room and looked in the mirror. Again. “It feels so weird not being in white tie. Are you sure this suit is the best choice?”

“Yes!” everybody else chorused.

Just then, there was a knock on the door, and Bradley came in. “Ten minutes, Andrew. You guys had better get out there; there's already been a couple of fights over your seats. Oh, and Andrew? I have something for you. From Ovechkin.” He handed Andrew a box.

Andrew looked inside. And burst out laughing.

“What is it?”

Andrew held up a pair of boxer shorts. With Ovechkin's picture all over them.

“Well. I think this sets exactly the right tone, don't you?”

**********

When Andrew walked on stage, all traces of his nerves were gone. As people started to clap, he grinned, and made a couple of little bows in acknowledgment. His pianist got settled, and once the theater was quiet, Andrew began.

Andrew had divided the concert up into three periods and overtime. Which, of course. The first period was the Russian part, and Sid had no idea where he'd found a song about a skater who'd been cursed into always falling down, but he was glad he had. It was so funny, and Andrew's face was as expressive as his voice, so Sid almost didn't need to read the words above the stage to know what was going on. The applause was loud and, Sid thought, taking a look around, genuine; he actually saw impressed looks on the faces of some of the people sitting near him.

The second song was completely different. According to the words, it was about heading into battle expecting to win and coming out on the other side losing. It was, Sid assumed, a famous song about a real Russian war (Ovechkin was openly weeping and he wasn't alone among the Russians), but the analogy was obvious, and Andrew sang the pain so clearly that everybody was affected. Sid managed to keep his composure, but only by a hair.

After the third song, which was, in a word, rowdy, and which had most of the hall clapping and stomping their feet in time to the music halfway through—behavior that Andrew openly encouraged—Andrew started talking.

“Thank you so much! And welcome to what may well be the first folk music recital ever to be shown on a major sports network!”

After the laughter had died down, Andrew went on, “I want to say thank you to some people. It may sound like a cliché, but I literally could not have put together this program without the help of some very generous people: the mothers, grandmothers, wives, sisters, and other family members of many of the people in this room. You see, I didn't want this to be an ordinary recital; I wanted songs that were either about hockey, or that might have some special significance for people who play hockey. And so, I called a couple of your mothers, and not only did they help me, they passed my name, and my phone number, and my e-mail address, on to others. I really wish every single person who donated her time and energy into helping me were here so I could thank them all, but since that's not possible, I'd like you to join me in giving them a well-deserved round of applause.”

When he could be heard again, Andrew said, “At first, I was very surprised by how much help I got, but when I thought about it for more than two seconds, I realized that I shouldn't have been. Because . . . every single one of us in this theater is here because of the help and support of our families: all of the people who love and care about us. Whether it be driving you to early practice at five in the morning and then picking you up from after-school practice at seven at night, or listening to me singing scales for hours on end, day after day after day, we would never be where we are without the generosity of others. And in turn, because of all of your generosity, the generosity of many thousands of your fans, and the generosity of Singleton-Copley Enterprises, countless young people will be able to play some hockey, and maybe even, one day, hold up the Cup in victory. And for bringing them a little bit closer to that dream, on their behalf, I thank all of you.”

Even as he clapped wildly, the rookie said into Sid's ear, “He's got them eating out of the palm of his hand.”

Sid nodded. “You ready?” He nudged Geno, and then the three of them stood up, joined by all of the other Pens. And by Ovechkin and all of the Caps. And by Toews and the Hawks. And they started chanting, “Cop-ley! Cop-ley! Cop-ley!” And then all of the other teams joined in. And they kept up the chant until Daniel and Elisabeth stood up and waved. Both of them looked truly moved—maybe even a little embarrassed, which Sid didn't get at all. For his part, Andrew, who'd been clapping up on the stage, looked totally full of pride.

Sid really hoped the camera people got a good shot of this; he also hoped the asshole contingent of Daniel's family choked on it.

“We now return to our regularly scheduled recital,” Andrew quipped when the pandemonium had died down. “I owe my next song to the mother of the second-loudest person in this room. For the record, I'm the loudest. Any guesses about number two?”

At least three hundred people yelled, “Ovechkin!”

Ovechkin stood up and bowed, to great acclaim. He then turned back to the stage and opened his mouth, but Andrew just waved a hand in dismissal. “Don't even bother, Alex. You'd lose.”

During the heckles and laughter, Sid reflected that the concert was really beginning to resemble a chirping contest. Which was maybe what Andrew was going for.

“Anyway: your mother was, understandably, a little surprised to hear from me. But we had a nice chat. She said she didn't know much about music, but she gave me the names of some other people she thought might be more help. And we were about to end the call when she said, 'Of course, there is one song you must never ever sing to my son.'” Andrew paused for effect. “And then she laughed. Like this.” And he changed his voice and uttered the most evil laugh Sid had ever heard.

Geno was doubled over laughing, and he wasn't the only one. Ovechkin clutched his chest, and shouted, “Mama! You here!”

“No, Alex, she's not here. But I am. And when I heard that laugh, I knew that of course I had to sing that song. Alexander Mikhailovich: this is for you!” And Andrew launched into a children's song about a bratty boy who tried to play tricks on a witch. Who wasn't pleased. But Andrew's audience was.

Andrew dedicated the final song of the first period to Geno, because, as he said, “if it's weren't for you, I would never have thought of doing something like this.” He then added, “Oh, and also to thank you for forgiving me for throwing you into the laundry basket that time. Which we will never speak of again.”

“Maybe he won't,” Tommy muttered to Sid, “but I bet everybody else will. Fuck, can he work a room or what?”

Sid felt a burst of pride. “Of course he can. He's the ninja tenor.”

**********

There was a short intermission between periods, and as soon as the lights went up, Sid tried to assess the room. It wasn't difficult. 

> _U R a big hit!_

Then Sid did something impulsive. He walked over to where a bunch of the Caps were sitting. And he said hello to Burakovsky. And he made small talk for a minute. By asking if Burakovsky was enjoying the concert. And then he walked back to his seat. Smiling. Because if Burakovsky was man enough to come to a concert given by a man he obviously still feared, then Sid was man enough to enjoy that fear.

Adulthood, Sid reflected as he sat down again, really was a work in progress.

**********

The highlight of the second period—which was devoted to European songs—was one from Sweden, about trying to win a game while playing with a terrible head cold. Andrew sang it—in Swedish!—punctuated with stifled sneezes, aborted sneezes, half sneezes, and finally with a chorus of full sneezes that he delivered with aplomb and great gusto. To roars of laughter. Including Sid's goose laugh. Which got laughter of its own.

Sid knew that the third period was for Canadian songs, but he was surprised by an announcement Andrew made at the beginning.

“I told you all that I had a lot of help putting this program together. And I also got a lot of requests along the way: requests for songs that had special meaning either for you guys, or for your families. And I decided that I would do my best to honor as many of those requests as I could, so that's mostly what I'm going to do now. One is a little different, but I'll explain that later.

“To begin, then: I got a lovely note from a woman in Manitoba, who told me about her son, who's here today, and how the only way she could get him off the ice when he was very small was to promise to sing him this song before he went to bed. I'm very happy to be able to include it.” He switched to French. _“Cette chanson est dédiée à Jonathan Toews, avec l'amour de sa mère, Andrée.”_

The song, which was about wanting to sail into the sky beyond the stars, was warmly received, as were the next two. One had been requested by six different people, and was dedicated to, among others, Brad Marchand; Sid even managed to keep smiling when Andrew named the last of the other five, who was Claude Giroux. But even his forbearance had limits, and he almost choked when Andrew announced the third song: given their meeting in New York, he had no idea why Andrew would sing a song to John. The mystery was solved once he began singing; the song was a Portuguese lullaby about how many wonderful things you could do in bed. When you dreamed.

Not for the first time, Sid had to admire how truly evil Andrew could be sometimes.

“Next,” Andrew announced, “we have the one that's a little different. While doing my research, I spent an extremely enjoyable hour or so talking to Linda Staal, which I am sure is a name that is familiar to many of you. And I have to say: I'm not sure if I've _ever_ laughed more in an hour than I did while we were talking. Mrs. Staal is one of the funniest people I've ever spoken to, and when we got off the phone, I called my agent and told him to find me an engagement near Thunder Bay as soon as possible, because I really need to meet her in person.” He paused; then, with an openly wicked grin, he confessed, “It's actually a real pity that I don't play, because she gave me enough material to chirp any one of her sons 'til the moon turns green.” He held up his hand. “And before you ask: no, I won't share.” He ignored the groans.

“Unfortunately, Mrs. Staal wasn't able to help me with any specific song selections, but thinking about it afterwards, I decided that I wanted to include a song dedicated to her and to all of the mothers of the NHL. Because if I didn't make it clear in my earlier remarks, I truly do believe that the families of those who achieve success are often unsung heroes.” He made a face. “And please excuse that mangled metaphor.

“Anyway: I thought and thought about it, and I finally came up with something. It's not a perfect choice, perhaps, but I think it sums up my message fairly well. Therefore. . . .” Andrew broke off as Daniel and Elisabeth walked up onto the stage.

“Uh . . . Mom? Dad?”

Then Sid saw that Elisabeth was holding a microphone. He started to grin; Geno was already leaning forward in anticipation.

Daniel walked over to the piano and nudged the accompanist until he stood up. As Daniel took his place, Elisabeth started speaking into the mic.

“Please forgive the interruption, but the song our son picked was boring.”

Andrew got the world's most affronted look on his face, as the whole audience started to laugh. Daniel leaned forward and said into the piano's mic, “So we picked a better one!”

“Because, to be frank, darling, you have no idea what it's like to be a woman . . .”

“Or a parent,” Daniel threw in. “And you won't, until you get busy and give us grandchildren!” Andrew threw up his hands in disgust.

The entire Pittsburgh contingent was laughing like fiends, and they certainly weren't the only ones; every single person in the audience who'd ever met Andrew was howling.

“So why don't you go sit down and listen to your mother and father for once?” She paused, waiting, and then raised her eyebrows. And made a little shooing motion. “Run along.”

Andrew obviously realized that he wasn't going to win. “Why, certainly,” he said graciously. He took two steps and then turned back around. “Keep it clean, you two!” he admonished.

Elisabeth and Daniel exchanged glances. And then they both laughed. As if Andrew had said the funniest thing in the world. Andrew threw up his hands again, and, shaking his head, walked off the stage.

The entire audience starting clapping.

**********

When Daniel and Elizabeth had finished (their song was evidently called “A Woman's Work is Never Done,” and it had been pretty funny—as well as kind of sexy at the end, which the audience appreciated), Andrew walked back on, wiping his eyes. “You know,” he said, “everybody in this room now understands me a lot better.” As his audience calmed down, he said, “Part of me was tempted to say, 'Let's just stop there.' But since the bar won't open for another half an hour, let's finish this up, shall we?”

“This last request is rather special, because it's the very first one I received. About twenty minutes after the concert was announced, in fact. I was checking my phone, and I saw that I had an e-mail from a young woman from one of the Maritimes. She told me that when she was very small, her brother used to take her out skating and he would sing a French song to her. Which, she informed me, was quite a feat, since, to quote, 'he can't really speak French, and he _really_ can't sing.' However, she assured me that he'd love it if I sang this song today.

“Now, as I said, I got this right after the press conference. So I was intrigued, and I looked the song up. And it was nice, and in my range, but it was too short to use, really. But I kept thinking about it, and the song kept playing in my head, and I realized that the tune is actually from an 19th-century French opera by Auber. And that got me thinking. Which is always dangerous.” A bunch of people laughed, and he grinned.

“You know, ever since I started hanging out with some of you guys, I've heard story after story about how early you started skating—to be honest, I wouldn't be surprised to be told that some of you came out of the womb wearing skates, which of course is yet another reason to be nice to your mothers—and how many years you've devoted to hockey. And while I've truly enjoyed learning all of the songs I've sung today, and I actually do not have the words to express how much fun I've had performing them for you, it's nonetheless a fact that this is not the kind of singing I usually do. So I wrote back, and said that the song was really too short to use as is, but I asked if she had any objections to my giving it a little vocal embellishment. And she didn't. Which is wonderful, because now I can give you guys a little sample of the sort of thing _I've_ been learning how to do since I was very, very young.

“So, without further ado, I present to you 'Vocalise après un air d'Auber.' And this song is from Taylor Crosby, for her big brother Sid, with love.”

Sid's jaw dropped. And when the clapping stopped, Andrew began to sing. 

> _On patine sur la glace, on y danse;_
> 
> _On y danse, tous les jours, et on rie._
> 
> _Et souvent la glace rit en réponse._
> 
> _Ah! pour être sur la glace est la vie!_

The first time he sang the words was simple and direct. But then . . . that changed. And for the next three or four minutes, Andrew sang like Sid had never heard him before. Each time through, the music went faster, and each time through, Andrew added more ornaments. Then he started leaving out words and adding even more ornaments in their place. His voice never stopped; he sang faster and faster, adding more and more notes, and yet he hardly seemed to be taking a breath. His voice skipped from high notes to low notes, and than sang seemingly every note in between. And everything built up, and then built up more, and Sid just didn't understand how Andrew could keep doing this, how he could still be in control of what was pouring out of him. And yet: he was. And then Andrew hit the highest note Sid had ever heard him sing—and he held it. And he held it. And he held it until the piano finished rumbling out some final notes.

Sid wasn't the first to start clapping. And he wasn't the first to stand up. But he _was_ the first to yell out, “Bravo!”

Wearing a delighted smile, Andrew took a deep bow.

**********

Andrew insisted that his accompanist take a second solo bow, and then they walked off together. A few seconds later, he came back alone and waited for the applause to die down.

“I've heard a rumor that, in general, members of the NHL don't believe in rituals or superstitions. Can any of you confirm that?”

Obviously, no one could.

And when he could be heard again, Andrew said, “I ask because I have a ritual with which I conclude all of my recitals. I always sing 'Amazing Grace,' and I plan on doing that in a minute. But you know, I've never been asked why. Or if I have been asked, I've never given a complete answer. However, this gathering today,” and he gestured, “seems like a perfect opportunity to do so.

“It was my _Babushka_ Svetlana who got me interested in singing: first by teaching me Russian songs, and then later by giving me voice lessons for my birthday. I loved my _babushka_ very much, and we spent a lot of time together; she taught me many things besides songs, and perhaps the most important of them was her philosophy of how to live a good life. 'Begin each day with a smile,' she would say; 'make sure you laugh at least twice; and end each day with three shots of vodka.'” He smiled, and then confided, “I got chocolate milk instead. But we put it in a vodka bottle. And while graduating to real vodka came in quite handy when I was older, I've actually found her other two points to be more useful.

“'Amazing Grace' was my _babushka's_ favorite hymn, and the very first time I sang it in public was at her funeral. And when I was putting together my first recital, I decided that I would always include it, to honor her memory, and to acknowledge her contributions to both my life and my career. So, I'm going to sing it now, but I would like to ask all of you: when you join my parents at the reception they're giving after this, please raise a glass to honor your families, and mine.”

**********

Andrew walked into his dressing room, and was immediately greeted with fervent hugs from his parents.

“Darling! You were sensational!”

“So were you,” Andrew quipped. “Scene stealers!”

Daniel looked smug. “You had to get your talent from somewhere, you know!”

“I suppose. But seriously: you two were fabulous. Oh, and Mom? Here's your jacket and your hair comb. But please: take pity on your only son and stop stripping in public. Oh, thank God! And thank you, Bradley!”

He accepted the over-sized tumbler of ice water and started swallowing. After four or five gulps, he wiped his mouth and asked, “What did you think, Bradley?”

“Most of it was great.”

“ _Most_ of it?”

Bradley grinned. “That tone doesn't work on me, Andrew; I've known you too long. Yes, most of it. But that vocalise you sang Sid? That wasn't great; that was . . . Andrew, I had no idea you could sing like that. It was brilliant! And totally insane!”

“Insane, I will grant you,” Andrew laughed. “But thanks.” He took another gulp. “The nice thing about arranging your own music is that you can play to your own strengths. And even though I was definitely showing off a little, I meant what I said out there: I really did want to give them an example of bel canto singing.”

“Is that all?” his father asked, openly skeptical.

“Of course not. It was my way of telling Sidney how much I love him. Without actually saying the words. Which I haven't been able to do yet.”

“Oh, Sasha!” And his parents enveloped him.

**********

The crowd leaving the theater moved slowly, but everybody was heading in the same direction (Andrew had informed Sid that it was going to be open bar; Sid had informed Andrew that nobody, including his parents, was that rich) and Sid actually appreciated having the time to listen to the complimentary things he heard guys from other teams saying. He found himself nearly bumping into Jon Toews at one point; he said hello, and then asked him: “Did you like your song?”

Jon's face turned pink. It was kind of astonishing—and a little unnerving. “I did. I can't wait to thank him. And to call _Maman_.” He cleared his throat. “Did you like yours?”

“For sure,” Sid grinned. “I can't believe Taylor remembered that!”

Jon laughed. “Sid, I've only heard you sing once—in Vancouver. Believe me, it's memorable.”

Sid scowled, but his heart wasn't in it. “I was drunk.”

“So was I. I still remember it.”

Sid gave up and laughed. “I kind of do too.”

Jon leaned a little closer, and lowered his voice. “Was it a surprise? Your song, I mean.”

Sid nodded. “Totally. I had no idea.” He could feel his smile spreading.

The crowd had reached some kind of bottleneck, so Sid said hello to a couple of the Hawks on Jon's other side. One of the them was Saad, so Sid asked him what he'd thought.

Saad just shook his head. “Unbelievable. He took those songs and made them sound like they were grand opera. And that thing he sang to you? Incredible. Fucking unbelievable. I think I have all of his CD's, and I have some bootlegs of live performances, and I have _never_ heard him sing like that. I've never heard _anybody_ sing like that. Maybe a couple of sopranos from forty or fifty years ago. But a tenor? I bet even Flórez couldn't match him.”

Sid said, “Probably not.” Even though he had no idea who Flórez was. But he knew nobody was a match for his tenor.

Kane leaned around and smirked. “If you haven't figured it out yet, Saader is a major fan boy of your buddy Andrew. He finally had to admit his big secret to us; Tazer wouldn't promise to introduce them until he did. So now we all know why Saader always kept his iPod locked up.”

The mass of people was moving again, so Sid let the chirping wash over him.

There was another surprise waiting for him when they finally reached the reception room. And it threw herself at him. Well, carefully and strategically threw herself at him.

“Squid!”

“Tay! What are you doing here?”

“I was invited, you idiot.” Her cheeks were flushed, and she had on what had to be a new dress (a dressy dress!), and she looked very pretty. So Sid told her so. Predictably, she made a face. “Mom made me get this. It was one of the conditions for letting me come.”

“How come you didn't tell me you were coming?”

“I was under orders. All of the people who had their requests sung got invited, but Mrs. Copley didn't want anything to spoil the surprise, so we all sat in back. Hey, Tommy. How have you managed not to kill him yet? Geno!” And she launched herself at him.

Sid looked around. Sure enough, there was Jon giving his mother a hug. His face was pink again; Sid really wished he'd stop doing that—usually, Jon turned as red as Sid himself did, and he liked having the company.

They got themselves drinks, and then just milled around. It was an unusually . . . happy crowd, Sid decided; even Giroux had a smile on his face. Sid reapplied his own.

A couple of people over by the door started clapping, and sure enough, Andrew had just walked in. From this distance Sid couldn't be sure, but he'd bet Andrew was rolling his eyes. Even from this distance, though, he could hear Andrew say, “Why don't I have a drink in my hand already?” And somehow Sid wasn't at all surprised to see Jon Toews practically pounce and start dragging him to the nearest bar—there were at least four—while Kane, Saad, and a bunch of other Hawks, as well as Toews' mother, laughed at him.

Sid sighed. This was going to be the hard part; he had direct orders from every Pen in attendance not to hover. Not surprisingly, it had been Tommy who'd rammed it home when he'd informed Sid, “I don't think Ace did all of this so that the two of you could eye-fuck each other in front of most of the NHL.” Andrew had, predictably, laughed his ass off, but even he admitted Tommy had a point. “Don't worry, Sidney,” he'd said, “we'll make an opportunity.” And then he'd informed Sid that he'd rearranged something or other, and that he had almost an entire week (well, five full days) free to spend in Nova Scotia. Sid could not wait. And he didn't intend to.

“Sidney Crosby!” It was, of course, Ovechkin. “I talk with you!”

“Don't you mean at me, Alex?”

“You so funny! Why you keep secret forever? Come!” And Sid perforce let himself be dragged a little distance away.

“What do you want, Alex?”

“To ask how you feel. Better? You heal?”

“Okay. Yes. And I guess.” He moved his arm experimentally. “I got cleared for PT just before I left to come here.”

“Good, good.” Alex pursed his lips. “I very sorry you get hurt. I know I say before, but I repeat. You challenge, Sid. And challenge . . . well, like me, you know what challenge do.”

Sid met his gaze . . . and nodded. “It adds something.”

Ovechkin laughed. “It do! And to speak of challenge: I talk with _moy tenor_ much this week. And I tell you true, Sidney Crosby: you are lucky sonofabitch.”

For a few seconds, Sid considered how to respond. Then he smiled. “I know I am,” he admitted.

After giving him a shrewd look, Ovechkin nodded. “You tell truth. Good. And I tell _moy tenor_ already, but now I tell you: you need help keeping secret? Or anything? You call me.”

Sid hoped that his face didn't betray his skepticism. Clearly, his face had other ideas.

“I mean this, Sid. And before you ask 'Why?' in so suspicious of tone, I remind you: I Russian. To Russian, almost nothing better than grand gesture in struggle of love. You and _moy tenor_? Is almost epic.”

Despite himself, Sid was . . . touched. “Well. Thanks.” He was spared from having to say anything else when somebody tapped a microphone.

Ovechkin made a face. “Speeches. Bah! You come; we laugh at Bettman together.”

“Ugh.” But Sid dutifully followed. They ended up pretty close to the front, so they had a good view of Bettman, who was up on a dais with Andrew and his parents.

Sid had had a lot of practice at ignoring Bettman over the years, and while he would have preferred to continue the practice and simply look at Andrew and refine his plans for that evening, he remembered his instructions and actually paid attention. Which is why he heard Bettman thank Andrew for the “very pleasant entertainment.” Maybe he didn't mean to sound condescending, but he did for sure. Of the other three on the dais, only Andrew's face didn't change at all; he nodded politely in acknowledgment. However, Elisabeth raised an eyebrow, and Daniel appeared to be studying Bettman—as if he were a particularly noxious specimen in a lab. Ovechkin wasn't the only one in the audience who muttered something, but Bettman droned on, clueless, before introducing “the sponsors.”

Elisabeth walked up to the microphone, smiled at the audience, and said, “Mr. Bettman, thank you for your gracious words.” The way she emphasized “gracious” made it clear to the entire room, and perhaps even to Bettman, that she was actually thanking him for very little.

“As CEO of Singleton-Copley Enterprises, it is my great pleasure to be here this afternoon. I would be remiss if I did not thank at the outset all of the people who have contributed so much to the success of this event. I speak not only of those who very generously have pledged money in support of a wide variety of charities dedicated to youth hockey, but also of those who have labored tirelessly for weeks with logistics. I would like to mention specifically the staff of the Ovechkin Foundation; Simon Mendez and Julia Spence of SCE; Bradley Larkin of the Larkin Agency, who oversaw every detail relating to the concert itself with his customary care; and of course, our son Andrew, whose months of hard work resulted in the brilliant performance we just witnessed.” She paused as everybody clapped enthusiastically. And then she added, “Oh, and I'd also like to thank the staffer from Mr. Bettman's office who provided the . . . decorations.” She waved her hand towards the NHL banners that hung behind her.

Taylor, who'd appeared next to Sid, whispered, “That was maybe the best 'fuck you' I've ever seen. She's incredible!” Sid just grinned at her.

Elisabeth went on, “Now, I know we all want to mingle some more, so I will keep my remarks brief.

“SCE likes to support worthy causes, and the charities who will receive our matching donation are very worthy indeed. There is little that is more satisfying, to my mind, than helping, encouraging, and rewarding the young. But I confess: I am not entirely convinced that we are doing enough. You see, it occurs to me that there are certain groups who are not really represented here today. And one of those groups is young women.

“Women are, as I suppose is obvious, a rather important group to me. And helping, encouraging, and rewarding young women who wish to play hockey is as important to me as doing so for young men is. It would be wonderful to look out at this room and see women as members of a professional organization of players that enjoys precisely the same stature and prestige as the NHL, but that day is not yet here. It is my hope, however, that that day be not too far away. And that is why, in addition to SCE's corporate donation, I have decided to make a personal donation of $250,000 to support the cause of young women whose dream it is to play professional hockey in North America.”

“Yes!” Taylor said enthusiastically. And loudly.

Elisabeth smiled in her direction. “Because while it is a generally accepted truth these days that women and men are equal, as I believe the song my husband and I performed this afternoon demonstrated, there are a few things women can do that men cannot.”

Daniel called out, “Amen!” She grinned, and said, “Why, thank you, darling!” and the whole room started laughing. And applauding.

Ovechkin leaned in; “Bettman look like he almost shit himself.”

Sid nodded—and then, catching the glance Elisabeth and Daniel exchanged, said, “Something tells me they're not done.”

“And now, I'm going to turn the microphone over to my husband, Daniel.” Daniel walked over and gave her an exuberant hug and kiss, before turning to the audience.

“I'm Daniel Copley, chief technology officer of SCE, and I am very honored to be a part of these festivities. Lis spoke just now about how important it is to help, to encourage, and to reward young people, and I couldn't agree more. I'm thrilled at the prospect of the good that the money raised here today will do. But, like my wife, I'm not sure we've done enough. And I hope you all will indulge me for a couple of minutes while I talk about why of those three things, encouragement is, to my mind, the most important.

“If you look me up in Wikipedia, I've led a story-book life. I was born into a distinguished family. I received a stellar education. I've achieved great success in my work. All of that is true, as is the fact that I have personally been blessed twice over: first, with the most wonderful woman in the world as my partner and wife, and then with our son, who has been a source of wonderment and joy since he uttered his first cry nearly 28 years ago. Incidentally: I believe his tone was just a little off-key that day; he sounded much better this afternoon!” He looked over and smiled at his son. Who was laughing.

“However: Wikipedia doesn't tell the whole story. And the truth of the matter is that I spent the first twenty-odd years of my life being miserable. Because I was different. I didn't fit in. And I didn't understand why I was always being told that I had to become a lawyer, or a banker, or even a doctor, when I knew, deep inside myself, that I was none of those things: I was a scientist. An engineer. And being constantly told that I couldn't be what I knew I already was, took its toll. But to offset that, I was fortunate enough to receive almost constant encouragement from my teachers. And essentially, my education took over my life, and these same, incredibly kind teachers helped me learn to do what I had been born with the talent to do. And my family gave in when I was accepted to MIT before I was sixteen. Well, to a certain extent: they told me that I could go, but that I shouldn't talk about it.”

He laughed. “Of course, there's really no good way of hiding it when you're very good at something and you actually get to do it. So let's fast-forward a few years. I was just completing my doctorate, and I got a dinner invitation from Alexander and Svetlana Singleton. It was,” he confided, “the first solo dinner invitation I had ever received in my entire life. And I, small surprise, was incredibly awkward. But Svetlana made me comfortable, and Alex drew me out, and eventually, we talked about a lot of things, but foremost among them was engineering. I shared a few of my ideas, and Alex and Svetlana looked at each other. And they nodded.

“And then they offered me a ride home, if I didn't mind making one stop first: at what was then called Singleton Enterprises, where they led me to the most incredible lab I had ever seen. And they offered me that lab—and a job.

“I was completely taken aback. And I stammered and I stuttered, 'But what would I do?' And Alex said, 'Whatever you want. Whatever you can.'”

Daniel looked down for a few seconds. Then he continued, “So I took the job. And less than a year later I filed the patent for the ZN-chip. Which you may have heard of; it was a bit of a game-changer.

“Now, you may be wondering where I'm going with all of this, and what it has to do with hockey. Well, it's very simple. I would not be where I am today without the encouragement of my teachers and of Alex and Svetlana Singleton, all of whom urged me, and helped me, to be myself. And women are not the only group not openly represented here today.

“I believe very strongly that no one should ever be told that he shouldn't talk about what he was born to be. Or to do. Therefore, I have decided that in addition to SCE's corporate donation, I will make a personal donation of $250,000 in support of the educational mission of the _You Can Play_ project. And I do this in the hopes that one day very soon, when a member of the NHL proudly carries the Cup around the rink in triumph, it will not matter that he looks up into the stands and shares that victory with another man.”

Sid shocked himself by starting to clap even before Andrew did.

Ovechkin, who was clapping as enthusiastically as Sid, leaned over again. In tones of deep satisfaction, he said, “Now Bettman actually _do_ shit himself.”

 

**********END OF THE SECOND PERIOD**********

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're now two-thirds done, so I'd like to thank everybody who's persevered thus far! Sid and Andrew will each face some challenges in the final section, but please rest assured that, whether or not they're physically in the same spot, they will do their best to face them together.


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sid's deepest secret is revealed.

Andrew groggily reached for his phone. “Sidney?”

“It's me, Taylor. Andrew: where are you?”

“New York.” He pushed himself up. “Taylor, is something wrong? Is Sidney okay?”

“Yes to the first, and fuck, no, to the second. Is there any way you can get here fast?”

“I can try. Tell me what's wrong.”

There was a pause. And then he heard Taylor try to catch back a sob. “Oh, Andrew: Sid's . . . in a bad way. I didn't know what to do; he'll kill me if he knows I called you.”

Somehow, Andrew managed to get his feet out of bed without even being aware of it. “Taylor: text me your phone number. From that phone. And I'll let you know when I'll be there. Where are you? Cole Harbour?”

“I'm at Sid's house.”

“Okay. I'll be there as soon as I can. I don't know when that'll be, exactly, but I promise.”

“Thanks.” She was crying outright now; Andrew was sure of it. He bit his lip, wavered for a moment, and then decided he had to. “Taylor. If you need help before I get there . . . you need to call someone. Some emergency service. It's 911 here in the States; I don't know what it is there.”

“Don't you think I thought of that already? But if I do that . . . the whole fucking world will know by tomorrow. I can't do that to him, Andrew; I can't!”

Andrew didn't doubt either of those things for a minute. “I understand. Completely. Okay, then. Let me get moving; I promise I'll be there as fast as I can. And you keep me updated. You promise?”

“I will. I promise.”

“Bye.” Andrew ended the call. And considered his options. He knew Simon would help him, but there was no way he could ask Simon not to tell his parents. So, until he had more information. . . .

“Okay, Copley,” he told himself; “you're flying solo.”

********** 

> _Just landed in Halifax. I'll be there soon. How are things?_
> 
> _same. text when u get here, ill meet u outside_

**********

“How the hell did you get here so fast? Did you buy a plane?”

“No, just a pilot.” Andrew pushed open the car door. “Where is he? What the hell's wrong?”

“I don't know what's wrong. Exactly. And he's in the shower.”

“The shower? But. . . .”

“Andrew.” And she sounded much older than she was. “He's been in the shower for almost an hour. This time.”

He stared at her. Then comprehension began to sink in. “Oh, fuck.”

“Exactly.”

**********

Andrew stood outside of the bathroom door, steeling himself. As he always did before he went on stage, he silently ran through the two vocal exercises that served as the foundation for his daily routine—and grimaced at the irony. He eased open the door and slipped inside; there was so much steam he could barely see anything. He pushed his underpants down and stepped out of them; then, fixing a smile on his face, he sang a florid cadenza. Loudly.

There was a jerk behind the curtain. Then the edge of it moved, and part of Sidney's face appeared.

“Sasha?”

“Why, hello, _mon oie_. Room for one more?”

For a moment, the only sound was the rhythmic pulsing of the water. And then Sidney opened his mouth.

“Get out. Get out! Get out of here!”

For a split second, Andrew actually considered obeying. But then the anguish in Sidney's voice registered, and he mentally reinforced his resolve.

“No can do, Captain Crosby.” He took two steps and, hoping Sidney didn't slip, pushed his way into the shower. It took effort, but not as much as he would have anticipated. Sidney turned away and stood rigidly under the flow of water; Andrew was only at the edge of it, but he could tell it was practically scalding.

He moved closer, put one of his hands on Sidney's shoulder, and said, directly into his ear, “You must have the world's most efficient water heater.” He could feel Sidney twitch. But he didn't shake Andrew's hand off. Emboldened, Andrew wrapped his other arm around Sidney's chest, and said, “Which is a good thing. We can stay here as long as you need to.” Mentally, he added, “This time.”

At first, there was no reaction. Then Sidney sagged backwards. Andrew held him close, and kissed him above his right ear. Then Sidney opened his mouth and Andrew had to move his head to catch the words.

“You weren't supposed to see me like this. You weren't supposed to know.”

There were any number of possible responses; Andrew went with, “Well, now I do. And the world hasn't ended. For the record, _mon oie_ , I still like you best. Even if you do resemble a freshly cooked lobster.”

After a beat, Sidney turned, slipped his arms under Andrew's, hugged him fervently, and closed his eyes.

**********

Sid walked into the kitchen to find Andrew ransacking his refrigerator.

“There is not one single thing in this entire house I am willing to eat,” he announced, slamming the door. “When was the last time you went shopping? When I was here before?”

“It's been a while,” Sid admitted. He looked around. “Where's Taylor?”

“She went home. She said to tell you she'd be back tomorrow. And if I were you, I'd prepare to be yelled at. You scared her, Sidney; she was frantic when she called me.”

Sid winced. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't apologize to me for upsetting your sister; apologize to her.”

“I meant, I'm sorry she dragged you up here.”

“Don't apologize for that, either. Because I'm not sorry; I'm glad she did.”

“Can I say I'm sorry for interfering with your work?”

“No. Because you didn't. I love singing at the Met, but there's no denying that they have entirely too many pre-production meetings. Honestly, sometimes I sit in these endless conferences and want nothing more than to sic Mom on them. And there is no reason on earth why I need to devote an entire day to wardrobe when the performances are months away, and they always refit things at the last minute anyway. So you see, aside from the ten years I aged worrying about what was wrong, you actually did me a favor.”

Sid opened his mouth, but Andrew fixed him with a glare.

“Button it, Crosby. We're going to have a serious talk, you and I, about your health. But we will not have that talk until after we eat; the only thing I've had today is airport coffee and half of an extremely unpalatable bagel. Oh, and some peanuts on the plane. So: do you have any preferences?”

“Not really. But. . . .”

“What? Be honest.”

“I don't think I can go out right now,” Sid admitted. “It's still . . . pretty bad. In my head.”

“Sidney, the last thing I want is to go out to eat. Seriously. Don't you know me better than that by now? And I'm also not asking you to go shopping; I think I remember how to get to the store. And there's a GPS in the car if I get lost, so I should be all set. Do I have your permission to stock up?”

“You do.” He essayed a smile. “I'm seeing brown rice in my future.”

“Oh Sidney. Brown rice is the least of it; I'm thinking tofu skins.”

“What the fuck are . . . no, don't tell me. I don't want to know.”

“Good. Because I was kidding. Tofu skins are the most disgusting things I've ever eaten. It was in San Francisco, a couple of years ago; I was dragged out to a vegan restaurant by someone I was singing with. I took one bite and almost threw up. And I will deny this with my dying breath, but on the way back to my hotel, I stopped at a McDonald's and got a gargantuan order of fries. And ate every last one. Because even I have my limits.”

Sid actually managed a laugh. “Fuck, Sasha: I'm so glad you came.”

“So am I, _mon oie_.” He gave Sid a kiss. “I'll be back soon.”

**********

True to his word, Andrew kept the conversation light all during the food prep (based on the disparaging comments about his knives, Sid prepared himself for another kitchen make-over; he was kind of surprised it hadn't happened already), cooking, and eating (grilled fish with some kind of spicy salsa, grilled vegetables, salad, and, Sid was amazed to discover, actual ice cream for dessert). But as soon as they'd finished, Andrew pushed his bowl away and said, “So: how long?”

“How long have I been crazy?”

Andrew rolled his eyes. “If you didn't have a history of head injuries, I would slap you for that. How long have you had OCD?”

It was a relief, in a way, to hear the question.

“If that's what I have—and I guess it is—then, for a while. Since I was a teenager.”

The look on Andrew's face could only be called disbelief. “What do you mean, 'you guess?'”

It was Sid's turn to stare. “I mean, I guess. I assume that's what it is.”

“Have you never been diagnosed? Have you never gotten treatment?” His voice almost squeaked on the last word; if they'd been talking about anything else, Sid would have laughed.

“Not by anyone with a medical degree. And no.” And Sid braced himself.

But once again, Andrew proved himself to be anything but predictable. “Well, we can return to that, I suppose,” he said. “When it started: was it right around puberty? And was it crippling from the outset? Or did it gain in intensity? Clearly, it must wax and wane, or I'm sure I would have noticed something. Does anything in particular spark an episode?”

Sid's head was whirling. He ignored Andrew's questions in favor of one of his own.

“How do you know so much about this?”

“I have an aunt—Aunt Susan, you met her at Thanksgiving—who has it. And two of her children do too. Uncle Phil swears that it's genetic, so I read up on it. I like my routines and rituals too, you know; Mom's always been on my case about them. But Uncle Phil says that lots of people have what is known as obsessive style, which is not the same thing as having the disorder. To be totally honest with you, Sidney, that's what I assumed you had: obsessive style. And since I have it too, perhaps I simply didn't question some of the things you do. Or did. But of course, you weren't acting like this in Pittsburgh. Are you going to answer my questions now?”

“I'll try. It did start right around puberty. And it took me a while to notice. Well, not exactly.” Sid shook his head and stood up. “I need some more wine if we're going to talk about this. You want some?”

“Sure.” Andrew stood up too and stacked the dishes, while Sid poured the wine. And thought.

“Okay,” he said, when they were both sitting down again. “I know you know that I started playing hockey when I was real little. And what you call the routines and rituals, and the superstitions, were kind of already there. And the more I played, the stronger they got. But . . . almost everybody who plays is kind of like that. So, I didn't exactly have to hide it; I just had to hide how strong it was. And if people noticed?” He shrugged. “They just chalked it up as being part of the Crosby weirdness. But . . . the really, uh, extreme stuff? I said a minute ago it started right around puberty. What I meant was it started about five seconds after I hit puberty. Like, almost immediately after I shot my first load. I fucking freaked out. I was dirty, I was contaminated, I was diseased, I had broken something, I was gonna die, I needed every molecule of that disgusting stuff off me, I had to get clean, clean, clean.”

“But . . . you're not like that now. Far from it, actually.”

“Not with you. And not with me.” Sid was sure that his smile was wry. Or sardonic. Whatever. “Picture it, Andrew. I'm twelve, thirteen years old. I had just had my first orgasm, and, until I shot my wad, it felt pretty fucking good. And now I'm in the shower, trying my best to clean off my dick. With half a bar of soap. And shampoo. What do you think happened maybe ten or fifteen minutes later?”

Andrew started to laugh. And Sid was even able to join in. A little.

“Exactly. I got over that one pretty fucking quick. Well . . . I didn't get over it exactly; it just sort of . . . mutated? Maybe. Changed, anyway. I got kind of germ-phobic. I still am. But I took so many showers anyway, that nobody really paid attention. And the sperm thing? It's still there. But not with you. Never with you, actually. The only other time that's ever happened was with my roommate at Shattuck—and that was a little different, because with him, it was there at first, and then it kind of faded, and by the end of the year, I hardly even noticed it. Most of the time, anyway. But with my puck buddies? Condoms for absolutely everything. And 30 minutes in the shower after. Minimum. Every fucking time.” He took a deep swallow of his wine. When he put his glass down, Andrew captured his hand and brought it to his lips. And then put it down on the table again with a pat or two.

“Is this terribly difficult for you to talk about, Sidney? We should defer it a bit, if so; I don't want to overwhelm you all at once. Particularly if you're still in the grips of an episode.”

Sid considered—and then shook his head. “I can go on. For now, anyway. Part of me wants to run upstairs and start cleaning the grout between the bathroom tiles—to get everything ready for my next shower. But it's still kind of manageable.” He let out a little sigh. “Another part of me can't believe I'm actually talking about any of this. And a third part of me is saying, 'Thank fucking God.'”

Andrew opened his mouth—and then, quite obviously, changed what he had been going to say. “Well, let me know if you want to stop.”

“I will.” He looked at Andrew levelly. “Tell me what you were going to say just now.”

Andrew returned his gaze. With interest. “If you must know: I was going to ask how the hell you've managed to keep this a secret all these years. Does no one else know?”

“I've never told anybody anything about this. I think Nathalie might have an idea. She made a joke once about how long my showers were; I don't know what my face looked like, but she changed the subject fast.” He huffed out a semblance of a laugh. “And then she made one of my favorite meals for supper that night. So.” He lifted his glass again. “And as for how: for the most part, I can keep it under control. Or disguise it. Mostly. It's gotten harder over the years; that's why I finally bought my own house in Pittsburgh. And it got . . . I guess you could say, more intense . . . after my concussion.”

After a minute, Andrew said, “I suppose that makes sense. I think I remember reading that head injuries can exacerbate OCD—well, any number of psychological issues, actually. Uncle Phil, who, if you haven't guessed it already, is the fount of all knowledge for all things medical—says that there's no hard proof, but that what evidence there is, is suggestive.”

Sid shrugged. “I only know what I've experienced. Obviously, I've looked stuff up on the Internet. But . . . I don't exactly like to.” He twisted in his chair, uncomfortable. “Anyway: it always gets bad at the end of the season. So I always come here. It's why I _had_ to come here in April. And it was pretty bad. But it got better. I was fine in Vegas. And I was fine when we got back here. But it . . . started up again; I don't know why. And it was worse than it was in April. And then Tay had a fight with Dad, and she came over here and saw me going at the bathroom floor stark naked. Which made me feel . . . so ashamed. And . . . things escalated. And, well: here we are.” He lifted his glass and saluted Andrew.

Andrew, however, didn't return the gesture. In fact, he did absolutely nothing but look steadily at Sid. The silence went on for a bit, and then he said, “Do you feel ashamed that I know?”

Sid considered lying. But then he said simply, “Yes. But not as much as I do with Taylor. Not nearly as much. And . . . it's different with you. Most things are.” He laughed—and it didn't even feel forced.

Andrew grinned. “Before I say thank you: can you tell me how it's different?”

“How did I know that you'd ask me that?” Sid shook his head ruefully. “Let me think for a second.” He got up and refilled his glass, then topped off Andrew's. As he put the cork back in the bottle, he said, “You know, the only thing I can think to say is that I want to be strong. I always want to be strong. I always want to win. But . . . nobody can win all the time. And nobody can be strong all the time. And you . . . you've held me in the dark. You know who I am. You know me and you . . . _accept_ me, Andrew, in ways that nobody else has ever done. So, with you: it's okay not to be strong all of the time. It's okay to lose sometimes. It's okay to tell you I'm in pain. And . . . fuck, I don't know. Upstairs? The urge not to come down here was strong; a big part of me—a very big part of me—wanted to get back in the shower. But I knew you were down here, and . . . I was able to resist. It's like . . . you _inspire_ me. You give me the strength to switch from the 'Pain of Defeat' tag to the 'Next Time' tag.”

After a beat, Andrew gave Sid the sweetest smile Sid had ever seen on his face. “Now I'll say it: thank you.”

“You're welcome.”

Reaching over again, Andrew took Sid's hand and squeezed it. “I do, however, feel it incumbent upon me to point out that I didn't actually do anything. And—no, hush; let me finish. Sidney: think about what you just said about switching tag lists. Think about the actual words you used.”

Sid reviewed it. “Okay. What?”

“You said, I give you the strength to switch. But _you're_ the one who does the switching. That's important, Sidney. Crucial, even. I'm not doing anything; you're finding the strength within yourself to do the work. All of the effort, all of the action: it's all coming from you. Do you understand?”

“I . . . think so,” Sid said slowly. “But . . . when things are bad, I can't do much to stop them. I mean, even though you're here, I know I'll be heading for the shower soon. I can feel it.”

“So? The fact that you found the strength once is a real achievement, and taking another shower doesn't negate that fact. If you can resist once, you can resist again; you just need some help. And you also need to not be so negative. You got yourself down here tonight, Sidney. That is a victory. Savor it. Don't denigrate yourself or dismiss your achievement as worthless. These things take time; Rome wasn't built in a day, you know.”

Sid looked directly at Andrew. “You're absolutely right, Sasha. Rome _wasn't_ built in a day. Would it be negative of me to point out that it burned in three?”

“Positively,” Andrew replied, through his splutters of delighted laughter.

“Now then,” he said a couple of minutes later, “why haven't you seen someone about your OCD?”

“I couldn't. I just . . . couldn't. I can't. I can handle it during the season.”

“And the rest of your life doesn't matter?”

“Of course it matters. But . . . I can't. I can't do it.”

Andrew eyed him shrewdly. “You just told me that it's getting worse. You said that you were surprised you had another episode so soon after the last one. How do you know it won't affect you this severely during the season?”

“I don't, okay? But it never has, so. . . .”

“But how do you know it won't? Think about it, Sidney. What will you do if you're all suited up, ready to play, and the compulsion to jump in the shower gets so strong that you cannot resist it? What will you do then? You'll be in a room with more than two dozen witnesses. There will be more then ten thousand people sitting in the stands. And you can't resist it, because you've been fighting this battle alone, all by yourself, without back-up or advice, and you're worn down. Your resistance is _gone._ What will you do then?”

“I don't know!” Sid shouted at Andrew. “I hope the fuck it doesn't come to that, but I can't! You can't ask me to do that!”

“Oh, I certainly can. I'm quite capable of asking.”

“Stop with the fucking word games, Andrew!” He took a deep breath and tried to calm down. “Look. I know that I probably should see someone; I've kind of known that for a while. But I just don't think I can do it right now.”

“You won't know until you try. Listen, Sidney. No, actually, hold on. Give me a minute, okay?”

Sid nodded. And watched Andrew stare into space, obviously thinking very hard about something. And if he didn't know what to look for, he'd have thought Andrew completely calm. But he _did_ know what to look for, so he could tell that Andrew was three provinces away from being calm.

Finally, Andrew gave a little nod—the slightest incline of his head. And said, “Would it help if I went with you? I could take you there and sit in the waiting room, or I could even go into the office with you, assuming the doctor would allow that. I'm willing to do either of those things if you think it would help.”

Sid was . . . touched. Truly. So he said so. And he added, “It probably would help. But right now . . . it doesn't feel like I can. And . . . it's my decision.” He stopped there. And wondered how Andrew would react. He expected an argument. A long argument. Or open anger.

What he got was a nod.

“It absolutely, positively is your decision, Sidney. I happen to think it's the wrong one, but. . . .” He shrugged. He stood up, walked over to the sink, and started rinsing off the dishes.

Sid's jaw dropped. “That's it? You're not going to argue with me?”

“What good would that do? If you've made up your mind, you've made up your mind. I'm not going to waste my time having an argument that I know I won't win; you're every bit as stubborn as I am.” He dropped the sponge in the sink and turned completely around. “Look, Sidney: I'm your boyfriend, not your parent or your guardian. And I'm not going to hound you over this. That seems to me to be completely the wrong thing to do. Although,” and he gave Sid a lopsided grin, “you don't expect me not to mention it, do you? Should the topic come up? Or not to try and convince you some other way?”

“No, of course not. But . . . oh, for fuck's sake, Andrew: I never know what to expect from you!”

“Well, that keeps things interesting, don't you think? Not that we really need any more interesting things today. Tell me something: on a scale of one to ten, how strong is the urge to get in the shower right now?”

Sid checked in with his head. “It's not too bad. Maybe a six. Why?”

“Well, I'd like some fresh air, so I wouldn't mind taking a walk. Are you interested? Do you think you could be outside for a while?”

“If we didn't go too far, then sure. Well, probably. When do you want to go?”

Andrew glanced at the clock. “Soon. Maybe . . . ten minutes? I need to make a phone call first. Is that all right?”

“It's fine.”

Andrew nodded, and then patted his pockets. “Shit.”

“What?”

“I think I left my phone in the car. Do you mind if I use yours?”

“Of course not.”

“Thanks.” Andrew took the phone and punched in a number.

Sid stared out the window, wondering how far he could go before things were likely to get bad. He got distracted, though, when the first thing Andrew said was, “No, it's me.” Curious, he looked over.

“No, I'm in Nova Scotia; Sidney wasn't feeling well, so I came up to see him.” There was a pause, and then Andrew said, “Well, that's why I'm calling, actually. Is Mom around? Would you put me on speaker? That way, I can ask both of you at the same time.” He waited. “Hi, Mom. Listen, you two: I need some advice. Sidney has a health issue, and he doesn't want to go see the doctor. Any suggestions?” Approximately two seconds later he said, “Okay.” And then he handed the phone to Sid.

“Sidney? My parents would like to have a few words with you.”

**********

Sid stumbled out onto the porch. To find Andrew sitting on the bottom step, waiting.

Andrew assessed Sid—briefly but keenly—and then looked away slightly. “How much trouble am I in?” he asked.

“I don't know. Right this second, I don't know much of anything.”

“Fair enough. When you do know, please tell me. In the meantime: do you feel up to that walk, or . . . actually, do you want me to leave?”

Sid looked at him. Really looked at him. There was tension radiating out of him. Openly. Tension, and concern, and . . . okay. There should not be fear on his face. Still. . . .

“If I said 'Yes,' you'd leave without an argument, wouldn't you.” It was not a question, but Andrew answered anyway.

“I would.”

“Then the answer is no. Of course not.” Sid sank down on the step above him, so his feet weren't touching the ground; he also adjusted his pant legs. Carefully. “And I don't know about the walk. The outside isn't feeling very . . . friendly right now.”

“Okay. If you want to go indoors, just say so.”

“I will. For sure.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes. Dusk wasn't there yet, but it would be soon. Finally, Sid sighed, and nudged Andrew.

“Don't you want to know what happened?”

Tilting his head, Andrew regarded Sidney for a bit. And then he said, “I do. But I'm not exactly sure I have the right to ask.”

Sid snorted. “Oh, come off it, Andrew. If you don't have the right, who does? And anyway, you're not asking; I am. Do you want to know?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.” Sid stared off into space for a minute, organizing his thoughts. Some bird was going berserk in one of the trees; he could empathize.

“Well, at first, I didn't have to say much, because your mom and dad were having an argument about who got to go first. Your mom won, but it was close.” He paused. “You know, in a face-off between those two, I don't know who I'd bet on.”

A grin whispered across Andrew's face. “It depends entirely on what's at stake.”

“I guess. Anyway. Your mother said to me, 'Sidney.' Just my name, but it was like every mother in the history of the world was saying it right along with her. And I said hi. And there was this silence, which seemed like it lasted for years, and then she said, 'If your skates were dull, or your stick was warped, would you just ignore it?' So of course I had to say no. And then she sighed. Fuck! That sigh? Again, with the chorus of mothers, but this time, it was like God's mother was standing there too, sighing right along with her.”

A brief laugh escaped. “I know that sigh. Remember I told you once about 'The Look of Maternal Disapproval and Eternal Despair'? That's the sigh that goes along with it.”

“Well, it's effective. And then, of course, she asked me why I'd treat my equipment with more respect than I treat my own body. Which, okay, I was expecting something along those lines, but not the word 'respect.' It kind of . . . got to me.

“So then your dad asked me what's wrong. And then he and your mom had a tussle. She said he shouldn't ask me that; he said, 'how can we help if we don't know what's wrong?' And . . . that's when I realized something. Well, two somethings.”

“What?”

“I realized what you did. The only thing you told them was that I had a health issue. No details whatsoever. I could have lied. I could have made something up—or, actually, I could have said an old injury was acting up, which maybe wouldn't have even been a lie. I could have said anything. Or nothing: I know them well enough to know that they'd listen to me if I said it was private. Well, they would for a while anyway.”

“Thank you for adding that last sentence. Which proves, despite what you claimed earlier, that you are eminently sane. Dad would probably tap your phone eventually—if he hasn't already. And for the record: you're right. I did that deliberately. What's the other thing you realized?”

“That they genuinely want to help. Me, I mean. I'll be honest with you, Andrew: sometimes I've wondered. Are they like this with all of your friends?”

Andrew rolled his eyes. “Hardly. First of all, as I know I've told you, I don't have that many friends. Well: that's not really true any more, is it? But I meant, growing up. Mom considers most of my friends from prep school a bunch of thugs, and whenever they'd come over, I'd get these foreboding lectures on genetics, in-breeding, and natural selection from Dad. Sometimes before my friends even left. Not that they noticed, which I will admit—to you, if not to Dad—proved his point quite effectively. But, no. Not at all.”

He held out his hands, and Sid took them. “Sidney. Last fall, my parents came to Pittsburgh to see me. But they also came to meet you. Because they were intrigued. And in the interests of fairness, I will say that they were probably disposed to like you, because ever since we'd met, I'd been . . . happier. But I did _not_ expect them to like you as much as they did. That first night, I was literally speechless when I found out that not only had they gone out to dinner with you, they were also going to go meet the guys. And I know they liked you even more by the time I left Pittsburgh; they wouldn't have come back for the pizza party if they didn't.

“But then you came to Boston for Thanksgiving. And . . . well.” He leaned forward a little, pulled Sid's hands to his mouth, and kissed them in turn. “When you appointed yourself my parents' champion, _mon oie,_ you made friends for life. More than that, actually: you became part of the family. No matter what flavor our relationship ends up having, Mom and Dad will always want you to be a part of their lives.”

Sid was silent for a minute. “That makes me feel . . . pretty amazing, actually. That last thing, anyway.” He frowned at Andrew. “What did that thing you said about our relationship mean?”

Andrew swallowed. And then looked directly in Sid's eyes. “I'm not going to defend myself, Sidney. What I did by calling Mom and Dad was underhanded. And unconscionable. And as I sat out here, I considered seriously the possibility that it might be unforgivable. I blatantly disregarded your wishes, and I ignored your very definite statement that you could not deal with getting help for your OCD right now. That I was motivated by genuine concern for your health, as well as by how very, very much I care for you, does not constitute an excuse for what I did, or for my arrogance in assuming that my judgment was superior to your own. My actions tonight could cause irreparable harm to our relationship, Sidney; I would actually understand if you hated me a little right now. I wouldn't like it—I'd feel like shit about it—but I would understand.” He paused, and blinked a few times. “But here's the truth . . . well, the rest of it: I would do it again. I discovered something about myself in your kitchen tonight, Sidney: I am incapable of not acting when you're in pain. Not when I think there's something that can, or perhaps, since I'm being honest, _should_ be done.”

Giving Andrew a quizzical look, Sid said, “You just realized this tonight? I've known that about you for a while. For certain sure, since April. Since I saw the look on Burakovsky's face when he walked in to apologize and saw you there.”

Andrew flushed. “That was different.”

“No, it's really not. And you even told me so at the time. You said you needed to say a few words to him. You needed. And so you did. Take credit for your own actions, Andrew. Gee: why does that sound so familiar?”

“You have no idea,” Andrew said eventually, “how very hard I am trying not to stick my tongue out at you.”

Sid laughed. Actually laughed. “Oh fuck, Andrew. You make my heart feel so much lighter; maybe that's because I've given so much of it to you.”

Delight bloomed on Andrew's face. And then he rested his head on Sid's knee. And Sid patted his hair until he stopped crying.

**********

“So, what happens now?”

Instead of answering, Sid pointed to his face.

“What? Use your words, Sidney.”

“I am. Take a picture of my face. Then, go to the dictionary and look up 'wry.' They'll match. You know, I probably never used that word, even in my own head, until I met you. Now, it's one of my favorite words; I have no idea why.”

“Well, I have no idea what your face is trying to say. Why is it wry? Oh, good grief: that sounds so stupid!”

“It kind of does. Any my face is wry because of what you asked. You didn't ask about the rest of the conversation I had with your parents.”

“Sidney, I've known them a lot longer than you have. Do I really have to ask?”

“Probably not. But humor me.”

“Of course. How much did you tell them?”

“A lot—although not as much as I told you; if I started talking to your mom about my feelings about sperm, I'd have to move into the shower permanently. And speaking of moving: let's go inside.”

“Of course.”

Once his shoes were off, Sid continued, “So they know I have OCD. Or at least, that's what my own diagnosis is. And that I've never seen anybody for it. And that it's pretty bad right now. And that you kind of tricked me into talking about it with them. They approve, by the way.”

“I assumed they would. After all, I learned all of my sneakiness from them.”

Sid pointed to his face again. “Take another picture. This one means sardonic. I think the eyebrows are a little different.”

“You seem . . . remarkably chipper.”

“Yeah, well. Enjoy it while it lasts. 'Cause I'm pretty sure it won't be for long; I'm kind of on an emotional roller coaster right now. Anyway: I agreed to go for an evaluation. _Only_ an evaluation. And only on the condition that I get some assurances that it will be private. I know there's all that shit about patient confidentiality, but I doubt it covers other people in waiting rooms. I hope whoever invented camera phones burns in hell. And . . . right now, at least, I definitely want you to come with me.”

“Of course I will. When?”

“I have no idea. Or where, actually. Your parents are lobbying for Boston, which maybe makes sense. There's really a whole clinic there for this?”

“There is. And let me simply say that it has received _very_ generous donations from my grandparents, my Aunt Susan and her husband, and my parents. Plus, Uncle Phil knows people there. I'm confident something can be arranged; the question is, how soon? I'm leaving for Italy towards the end of July; if I have to, I'll fly back, but I would prefer not to.”

“I wouldn't ask you to do that. I wouldn't _want_ you to do that. Honestly. We'll figure something out.” He eased his shoulders. “Okay. It's getting kind of bad. I need to stop talking about this for a while. Except . . . since you were honest with me, I'll be honest with you.” He was silent for a minute, trying to decide. And then he opted for completely honest.

“I was so incredibly bullshit at you when you pulled that stunt, Andrew. Seriously. When you handed me that phone and walked out, I felt . . . well, betrayed.”

Andrew flinched. No, he recoiled. And Sid didn't know if he felt good or bad about that.

He waited a couple of seconds before continuing. “And then I had my . . . epiphany? Is that the right word?”

Wordlessly, Andrew nodded.

“And once I realized that you had engineered things so that I did have control, that feeling went away. Which is a good thing, because it sucked feeling like that, even for a couple of minutes. I guess I don't have to tell you this, what with your aunt and all, but from what I've read online and, well, my own experiences, OCD is all about control. Giving in to the compulsions means feeling in control, even if it's completely illogical, and an illusion. And only a little bit in control. And not necessarily for long. But feeling out of control? Like, after going out in the first round of the playoffs? I had the bleach out three seconds after I got here. And it was fucking murder trying to clean the bathroom without fucking up my collarbone even more. I used my _feet_ , Andrew. It took fucking forever, but I had to do it before I could get into the shower, and I needed to do that so bad, I can't even tell you.

“Anyway. Like I said, I only felt betrayed for a minute or two. That doesn't mean I still didn't want to kick your ass, though. But . . . the more I talked with your parents, the more I just felt . . . relieved. I've been holding all of this inside of me for _twelve_ _years_. No, longer than that. I have _never_ talked about it with anyone before today. And maybe it was kind of easy to talk to them because I'd already talked to you. Or maybe it's because it's them. I don't know. But what I do know, and it's kind of a . . . a paradox, I guess . . . is that even though I would never have talked to them tonight if you hadn't forced the issue, I wouldn't have been able to talk to them at all if I didn't know you were right outside the room.

“The point of all of this is: I understand why you did what you did. I get that you were taking care of me. I know you thought you were doing the thing that was best for me—and if I hadn't known that already, then what you said outside would have convinced me. 100 percent. And I appreciate your offer to go with me, and your willingness to do, well, pretty much _anything_ to help me. It means a lot to me, Andrew, it really does. More than I can say.

“But. I want you to promise me something. I want your promise that you will never deliberately take control away from me. Just because I know I don't always have to be strong around you, doesn't mean that I can live with you being the one who makes me feel helpless or weak. And just so we're clear: I'm not talking physically. The only way I could ever kick your ass is if you let me. I know that, and I'm surprisingly okay with that fact. You have to know how proud I am of the ninja tenor part of you.

“But mentally? Or, I guess, psychologically? You are the only person on this earth I could imagine saying 'I am feeling so fucking fragile right now' to, knowing that I wouldn't get judged. At all. In any way. So please: please try to never do anything that makes me feel like you're saying that to me too.”

Andrew stood in silence, just for a second or two. And then he said solemnly, “I promise that I will try never to do anything deliberately to take control away from you, or to make you feel weak or powerless. And I swear to you, Sidney, that I will do everything in my power to keep that promise.” He placed his hand over Sid's heart; Sid remembered making the same gesture back in Pittsburgh, and was . . . touched. “If I could promise that I will never do anything even inadvertently that would make you feel that way, even for an instant, I would. But I can't. Because I can't control how you feel. And I might do something unintentionally that makes you feel that way. For that matter, I might do something deliberately, never thinking for a second that it would, but which makes you feel that way anyway. But please believe me, Sidney: I will do everything I can to try not to.”

“That's all I can ask.” Sid lifted his hand and caressed Andrew's cheek. “Thank you.” He shifted a little, and then shrugged. “It feels so weird to be talking about this. But I need to go upstairs now.”

“Is there anything I can do? Some way I can help? Or do you want me to stay down here?”

After thinking about it, Sid said slowly, “Um, how about you stay down here for now. But . . . once I actually get into the shower, you can come upstairs if you want. It . . . might be nice, knowing you're waiting. You . . . you're still okay with sleeping with me, right?”

“Sidney. I am more than okay with that. As long as you're still okay with it. Now, go upstairs and start doing what you have to. And when you get out, there'll be a song waiting for you.”

Thank God. Sid took two steps and then stopped. “You know, one thing I could have said before, but didn't? When you act all fierce? When you defend me? Hang up on my father to make sure he doesn't upset me? Or order guys around, guys who might actually be able to take you in a fight, and tell them to watch themselves around me, with that . . . uh, attitude of expectation that of course they'll obey you—and if they don't, it's a given you'll make them pay? That doesn't make me feel weak at all. That makes me feel special. Valued. Even, uh, cherished.” He was sure he was blushing a little.

“Oh, Sidney. You are. You so, so are.” When the crinkles appeared, Sid couldn't help smiling himself.

“I'll see you as soon as I can. Sasha.”

**********

When he was about half-way through his shower (or thereabouts, as measured by the gradually ebbing level of his anxiety), Sid became conscious of the faint sound of Andrew's voice. He pulled his head back and, careful to keep his scrubbing rhythm steady, tried to listen.

Sure enough, Andrew _was_ singing. And probably very close by, if Sid could hear it over the water. And when it was time to turn around, he managed to lean closer to the curtain, and was able to make out the tune. It was one of the songs from the “Second Period Momentum” play list; in fact, it was Sid's favorite on that list, and not just because it was one of the ones that Andrew sang himself. There was something about it, the . . . rhythm, maybe, that spoke to him, that reminded him of skating furiously after the puck, of long, sweeping strides, of sudden turns, of spins, of grappling with an opponent, of the burst of energy and of hope as he made a shot—and the thrill as the puck found its way into the net. When Sid found himself listening to music in his head, this was one of the songs he heard most.

He smiled as he turned once more, flipping the bar of soap accordingly, and set to. He'd long since discovered that counting while he did his routines helped keep the chaotic thoughts at a bit of a distance; since Andrew had given him the music player, he'd found that opera worked much, much better.

**********

Sid emerged from the bathroom, feeling unaccountably shy for some reason. Andrew was lying on the bed; he looked up from his laptop and smiled.

“All done for now?” he asked.

“I . . . think so. Thanks for the concert.”

“That was just the first act. There's more to come, assuming you'd like that.”

“Of course I would.” Sid hesitated.

“Is something wrong?”

“No. Or not really. I mean, besides. . . .” And Sid made a gesture that meant nothing, but which Andrew seemed to interpret anyway.

“Sidney. Please don't hold back. You're going through a difficult time right now; you have to tell me if something I'm doing is . . . irksome.”

“You're not doing anything, Sasha. It's me. Really.”

“Well, why don't you get in? You can tell me about it. If you want to, of course.” Andrew patted the right side of the bed, where the sheet and light blanket Sid used in the summer were already turned down; Sid slid under the covers and then sighed as the tension left him.

“Thank God,” he said, after a few seconds. He looked over, and answered the question that Andrew's eyebrows were asking. “I wasn't sure . . . I mean, you're the first—the only—person I've ever shared a bed with in this house. It for sure wasn't a problem before, but now . . . well, you know. I didn't know what would happen.”

“But you're okay?”

“Better than okay.” Sid moved over, and snuggled a bit. “I was just afraid . . . well, anything that's kind of new or a little different can set me off when things are bad. I'm just so relieved that it feels just as good as it did. Always does, I guess.” He closed his eyes. “I would hate it if something tainted this. And sometimes . . . sometimes the things that seem to be most easily . . . uh, affected, I guess . . . are the things I like the best.”

“That makes a good deal of sense,” Andrew said, after a bit. “It's a pernicious disease, isn't it?”

“I guess it is. Fuck, that's an ugly word: pernicious. It sounds just as bad as what it means.”

“I . . . never thought of it like that. But you're right; it is ugly. And of course, it rhymes with vicious. Then again, it also rhymes with delicious, so there goes that theory.”

Without opening his eyes, Sid said, “You're my favorite kind of nut, Sasha.”

“Why, thank you, _mon oie_. I think.” He patted Sid's shoulder. “Are you ready for your lullaby? Or are you in the mood for a _soirée musicale_?”

“If you're up to it,” Sid said, somewhat tentatively, “I would love it if you sang me to sleep. I doubt it'll take too long; I'm kind of wiped.”

“With good reason. And I'd be happy to. Any requests?”

“Um . . . one of the songs you sang when I was in the shower? I don't know the name, but it's one you sang in Pittsburgh. I was wondering if you could maybe sing some more like that one. If you don't mind.”

Andrew thought. “'Cessa di più resistere?'” He sang a few notes, and Sid nodded. “Of course I will. It's no hardship; I love singing Rossini. Have I ever sung 'La danza _'_ for you?” He la-la-la-ed a little.

“I . . . don't think so.”

“Probably not. I won't sing it now; it needs the piano. Next time we're in Pittsburgh, remind me. Or . . . if we go to Boston. You'll like it.” He rearranged his pillows. “Comfortable?”

Sid nodded.

“Good. I think we'll start with Lindoro. I haven't sung this since Chicago—and I only got a few notes out before I was rudely interrupted. Time to start repairing that memory, I believe.”

Sid's dreams were of sun-dappled lakes in spring. And of snow-kissed ponds in winter.

**********

The next morning, before he even opened his eyes, Sid checked in with his head—and was relieved to find that his urge to head for the shower was far from urgent. He would have been happier if it had been non-existent, but he supposed he should take what he could get. And speaking of. . . . He cracked his eyelids; amazingly, Andrew was still asleep.

But not for long, Sid thought with a grin, sliding under the covers.

**********

“You are clearly _very_ diligent about performing your breathing exercises, Captain Crosby,” Andrew quipped some time later.

“You could say I have real incentive. Just think how good I'd be if we got to see each other more often.”

“I'm not sure I'd survive it if you got much better. You know . . . well. Do you mind if I ask you a couple of questions? They have to do with OCD, so feel free to say no.”

“You can ask. If they're going to take me to a bad place, I won't answer.”

“Fair enough. And I'm not asking merely out of curiosity; at least a little of my impetus is . . . I need a little reassurance, I suppose.”

That certainly got Sid's attention. “Ask away.”

“Okay.” Andrew thought. “Well, perhaps this will sound rather silly, but . . . do you really enjoy blowing me? I mean, you certainly seem to, but . . . does your OCD bother you at all when you're doing it?”

“The answer to your first question,” Sid said, poking Andrew in the ribs, “is 'Duh.' And as for the other one: I thought I answered that already. Yesterday.”

“Well, if you did, maybe I missed it. Indulge me. It's just that . . . I confess I was a little surprised, last November, when you told me that you hadn't given a lot of blow jobs before. And now that I know about the OCD: well, I just want to make sure that you're not doing anything you don't really want to.”

“I repeat: 'Duh.' Believe me, I wouldn't. I think I said yesterday that sex with you is different. And has been, from the beginning. Remember? I talked about my roommate from Shattuck.”

“Oh, I remember. But that was in the context of sperm. Not specifically in the context of blow jobs.”

“I kind of think they're related. Thank God.” And they both laughed.

“You know, this may seem odd, but the single thing I'm most surprised about? It's not that you have OCD; it's that your strongest compulsions seem to be cleaning ones. If I'd had to guess—before, I mean—I would have thought they'd be checking ones.”

“Well, I have those too. All of the time, actually. The shower stuff . . . well, it comes into play when I'm really strung out. You could maybe call it the icing on the fucked-up cake.”

“I could, but I certainly will not.” This time, Andrew poked Sid. “We need to work on some cognitive restructuring, _mon oie_. It does you absolutely no good at all to constantly frame things negatively. It's a very bad habit.”

“Well, for the record, as you like to say, I have a lot of those.” Sid pointed: “Wry face.” They both laughed again.

“Would you like some breakfast? Or some tea, at least? I need coffee.”

“I think I need to spend some quality time with my favorite bottle of bleach. Which means, in case you haven't figured it out yet, a shower afterwards.”

“Better that way than the reverse. And then?”

“I guess we'll have to wait and see.”

**********

“Are you sure you want to do this now, Sidney?” Andrew asked for at least the fortieth time as he shoved the receipt for his rental car into his messenger bag; “you're sure it's not too soon?”

Instead of giving the same short (and increasingly clipped) “I'm sure,” Sid stopped and closed his eyes. “Andrew,” he said, “it is taking everything I have to leave my house and get on a plane for Boston. I'm still not sure I'm going to be able to do it; I may freak out so bad when they shut the cabin doors that Deadspin will devote an entire week to the story. But there's never going to be a good time, so I'm going to try. And at the risk of sounding like a complete asshole: you put all of this in motion. You don't get to have second thoughts.”

“Sidney, I had second thoughts long before I did anything. But . . . I take your point. And I'm sorry if I'm irritating you.”

“You're not. Well, you are, but the fact that there's air to breathe is irritating me too, so don't worry about it.”

“I'll try not to. Well, come on, then; I think we go this way.”

“Remind me to thank your parents. Again.”

“Somehow, _mon oie_ , I don't think I'll have to.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The development in this chapter is integral to the story; it was in my mind from the earliest days of planning--and as I sit and type this note, some 18 months after I began writing this thing, I find myself wondering how many people are going to be surprised by this turn of events. I tried to leave hints (in fact, I often thought I left too many); however, it's entirely possible they will only appear to be hints in retrospect. Nonetheless, I do think that the story does demonstrate, through Sid's preoccupation with his various routines, how pervasive they are in his life.
> 
> What Andrew says in this chapter is true: many people have obsessive style, which is quite different from having the disorder. My immediate family includes people with both obsessive style and the disorder, so I speak with some authority when I say that OCD is a painfully debilitating condition, and is one that deserves a more serious treatment than it usually gets in our culture at large, which often treats it as a joke (if you have ever heard someone say, "That's so OCD," you will know what I mean). I've tried very hard in this fic to treat Sid's struggles with the disorder with the gravitas they deserve; I hope I succeeded.
> 
> Finally: I have no idea if I should have tagged for this aspect of the story, and if so, how I should have done so (I will confess that I am thoroughly daunted by the whole tagging process). If any of you feel strongly about this, please let me know in the comments.


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Sid begins a difficult journey, and Andrew tells Sid a story.
> 
> Note: Andrew's story includes certain themes that may be difficult for some readers. A summation of those, necessarily containing spoilers, appears in the note at the end of the chapter.

Sid liked the doctor immediately. He also liked her private office, which was in a town not far from Andrew's parents' house (Sid had jumped at the chance of meeting there; the last thing he wanted was to be seen going into the hospital in Boston). Both were . . . comfortable. Dr. Tolliver could have been anybody's grandmother—or favorite aunt, maybe; Sid half-expected her to offer him cookies. Or to send him to bed without supper. Neither of which she did—although he could have used the cookies. She also didn't offer him false hope or platitudes.

“If you have OCD, and I'm fairly certain I'll be able to give you an official diagnosis before you leave here today, then you don't have an easy task ahead of you. From what little I know about you, Mr. Crosby, I'd say that you're not afraid of hard work. That's a good thing: because the only way to achieve any success at battling OCD is to try and resist giving in to the compulsions, one small step at a time. There are medications that can be effective, but they are not panaceas. You can't change your thoughts, but you can change your behaviors. That's the key. I imagine, in your line of work, you're familiar with blood and sweat. Add tears to the mix, and you'll have an idea what this process can be like.” She paused. “You can leave now, if you want.”

From somewhere, Sid rummaged up a grin. Well, it was probably more of a rictus, but whatever.

“I like to win, Dr. Tolliver. But believe me, I know that nobody can win every time. And that it takes a tremendous amount of work to win even once.”

She studied him. “The very fact that you're here is a victory, you know.”

“That's what people keep telling me. Andrew, especially.”

“Andrew is the man waiting outside?”

Sid nodded. “He's my . . . boyfriend.” It was still hard to say that out loud, despite how _right_ it felt when he did.

“You do know that absolutely everything that's said in this room is completely confidential?”

Sid nodded again.

“In that case: let me tell you that you have good taste.”

When Sid had finished laughing, she asked him, “How much do you want to include him in this process?”

“As much as I can,” Sid said honestly. “He . . . didn't know. Well, nobody did. But when my sister found out by accident, she called him, and he dropped everything and flew in to help.” He paused. “That's what he does. He . . . helps me. And he accepts me. And . . . I'll be honest: I wouldn't be here if it wasn't for him.”

Frowning, Tolliver said, “You should be doing this for yourself, not for anybody else.”

“I am. That's not what I meant. I guess . . . he believes in me.” Sid looked down for a few seconds before adding, “And that helps me believe in me.”

“I see.” Tolliver treated Sid to a penetrating stare, before she said, “Well, that's different. And, I need hardly say, very important. And potentially, extremely useful. Mr. Crosby, let's get started. I'm going to ask you some questions now. Once we discover whether or not Dr. Levinson is correct in his informal diagnosis, we'll try to assess the general extent of the disorder, if you do indeed have it. Then we can talk about strategies and possible treatment plans; you might consider asking your young man to join us for at least part of that discussion. Does this sound reasonable?”

Sid nodded. He almost asked who Dr. Levinson was, but then he figured out it must be Uncle Phil.

“Good. Let's begin with some general questions. Are you superstitious?”

**********

By the time the general questions were finished, Sid felt like he'd been doing suicides for two days straight. Dr. Tolliver tapped her pen on her pad; she was able to write really fast without even looking, which, okay, impressed Sid a lot.

“Well, Mr. Crosby, both you, and Dr. Levinson, were correct. You do have OCD. A moderately severe case.”

Sid almost couldn't believe his ears. “Moderately severe? What exactly does that mean?”

“On a scale of one to ten, somewhere between five and six. Right in the middle. Of course, that's my assessment based upon one conversation; it could change. But I've been seeing patients with OCD since 1988; you'll forgive me if I have a certain amount of confidence in my own judgment.”

“Uh, of course. I'm just . . . if what I go through—what I just went through—is moderate, I'd hate to experience anything higher.”

“Well, the quantification takes numerous factors into account, not just the strength of the obsessions and compulsions. You have one distinct advantage over many patients, though; you know that some of your thoughts and behaviors are irrational. Generally speaking, that's often an indication that treatment will eventually be successful, at least in part.

“Let's take stock. I scheduled three hours for this initial evaluation, and we've used more than half. I suspect that there's much more we could uncover, but it might make better sense to take some time now to discuss treatment options. Would you like to ask your boyfriend to join us?”

“I would, yeah,” Sid said, standing up. “Uh, and . . . maybe you could excuse me for a minute while I'm doing that?”

“Of course. The bathroom is down the hall to the left. Mr. Crosby: do you think you could come back in here without washing your hands?”

“No!” Sid was sure his horror was plain.

“Good.” And then she laughed. “Sorry: a little joke. One of the things that you'll need to work on is being sensitive to the nuances of your behaviors: what is healthy, and what is not. Washing your hands after using the toilet is the former; washing them twelve times is the latter. But be warned: I have been known to use _delaying_ hand-washing as a desensitizing exercise.”

Before he could stop himself, Sid said, “You're really kind of scary, you know that?”

She laughed again. And Sid joined in.

**********

When the introductions were over with and everybody was seated, Dr. Tolliver resumed.

“I'll be honest with you, Mr. Crosby. You are not the first professional athlete I've treated; you're not even the first professional hockey player I've treated. And don't even ask.” She smiled, and Sid closed his mouth. “So I speak with some authority when I say that professional sports are a hotbed of superstitions; one of my patients made almost no progress until after he retired. I want to warn you up front that your career may be a liability. Having said that, though: I think you would respond well to treatment. It won't be easy, and it will take time, but my impression of you is that if you decide to pursue this, you will make the necessary effort. You seem to me to be a pragmatist, Mr. Crosby, and that's a good thing.

“There are, however, some major issues that you need to consider. First and foremost, I suppose, is the matter of logistics. You don't live in Boston, obviously.”

“No,” Sid said, “but I can stay here for a while. At least,” and he glanced over at Andrew, “I assume I can.” Andrew rolled his eyes and nodded.

Tolliver shook her head. “I'm not convinced it's a good idea to begin treatment here, and then have to shift it when you go back to Pittsburgh. The disruption can play havoc with the therapeutic process. Think about it this way: what behavioral therapy does is work with you to change your routines. For a while, anyway, the therapy itself becomes a routine; most patients ritualize it in some fashion, at least at first. It's a form of transference. When do you return home?

“The end of August, usually. I . . . could go back there earlier. I guess.” Sid wasn't liking this.

“The other problem is that I don't know of anyone in Pittsburgh with this specialty. I'm not saying there _is_ nobody; I'm merely saying I don't know her or him. We'll have to do a little research.”

“But I want to work with you,” Sid said stubbornly. “I like you. I feel comfortable with you.”

“Well, I'd like to work with you. There are some aspects of your case that I find very interesting. And rather unusual. I've been doing this for a long time; it's nice to be surprised once in a while.” She laughed. “But it's not practical. You couldn't come to Boston every week during your season, and spacing the appointments out further, especially at the outset, is counter-productive. In cases like yours, I often schedule sessions twice a week at the beginning.”

“Is it necessary that the sessions be in person?” Andrew asked. “Obviously, it would be preferable, but . . . phone wouldn't be ideal, I suppose, but what about videoconferencing? Or Skype, for that matter? At least that way, you'd have both visual and audio contact; you'd only lack physical.”

“It's an interesting idea,” Tolliver said after a minute. “I've never done it, but one or two of my colleagues have. What would I need?”

“A laptop—well, any computer, but a laptop is probably easier, since most come pre-equipped these days—and a good Internet connection. It's quite simple, really, and we would be happy to provide you with a suitable laptop. Should, actually; my father . . . tinkers with them, and his work much better than anything you could buy in a store.”

Tinkers? Sid snorted. “Well, as long as he's tinkering, have him tinker one for me; I don't think my laptop can do things like Skype.”

“Your laptop is little better than an abacus, Sidney. And Dad would be happy to.” Andrew favored Sid with one of his evil grins. “And I look forward to teaching you how to use it.”

Before he could stop himself, Sid informed Tolliver, “Andrew's teaching approach is very goal-oriented. He's a firm believer in rewarding hard work.”

Tolliver laughed. “So am I. But I suspect we use different methods. In any event, I'm willing to entertain the idea of remote sessions once you go home. There's another scheduling issue, however: I will be away for three weeks in August. Do you think that discontinuity will be an insuperable issue for you?”

Sid thought about it. “I . . . don't think so. I mean, you're telling me about it in advance. And . . . it doesn't feel as bad as, say, having to find somebody else does. Would, I guess. Honestly, Dr. Tolliver: I don't know what to expect. This is . . . all new to me.”

“I appreciate your candor, Mr. Crosby.”

“Could you call me Sid?” His voice was plaintive, but he didn't really care. “Or Sidney? Mr. Crosby is my dad.”

“I could. And if we begin treatment together, I will. But there's one other thing to discuss first.” She turned to Andrew. “Mr. Copley, you may or may not be surprised to hear that your name came up several times while you were waiting outside. I get the impression that you have . . . well, let's say an investment, in Mr. Crosby's seeking treatment.”

“That's correct,” Andrew said, without hesitation. “Sidney is very dear to me; I hate seeing him in pain.”

If Sid had had to guess, that was not the answer Tolliver had expected; he wondered what that was.

“And what do you envision your role to be in Mr. Crosby's therapy?”

“My role in general is to support Sidney. As much as I can, as much as he will allow, and, to speak specifically about his treatment, as much as you deem appropriate. I'll take my cues from the two of you.”

“And how will you feel if he fails at something? Has setbacks? Ends treatment abruptly?”

Andrew narrowed his eyes slightly. “One of those things is very different from the other two,” he remarked.

“It is.”

There was a pause, and then Andrew said evenly, “To speak to the first two questions, then: I suppose I would encourage him not to be discouraged. Or to treat a single setback as indicative of total failure. And if he chooses to end treatment abruptly? By which, I assume you mean something like 'he gives up'? In the unlikely event that Sidney gives up, I would ask him to explain his reasons to me. But I imagine I would accept them. If I'm being honest, I suppose I should say that I hope I would accept them. But Sidney is an adult, and if his reasons make sense to him, so be it.”

“Those are excellent responses, Mr. Copley. Unfortunately, they don't answer the questions I asked. I asked how you would feel, not what you would do.”

The look on Andrew's face was . . . priceless, Sid decided as he started laughing. To his credit, Andrew joined in.

“You did indeed. Well, then. In the first two cases, I would feel sorry for him. Sympathetic. And, I suppose, empathetic, since everybody fails sometimes. In the final case: I would feel surprised, I think; in my experience, Sidney doesn't give up.”

“And after that?”

“I imagine it would depend entirely upon his reasons for giving up. And how I felt about them. And I decline to speculate about what his reasons might be; for the record, doing so would make me feel uncomfortable.”

“May I ask why?”

“You may. But to save you the trouble, I'll answer you now: asking me to speculate about how I would feel about something about which I am also speculating—and which, not incidentally, would seem to require that I provide my own speculative analysis of Sidney and how I imagine he will, or would, respond to treatment—is about two levels too hypothetical for me to tolerate. Not to mention the fact that I would be doing this in front of Sidney, and thereby, or so it seems to me, giving him something else to worry about—my feelings. Not that he doesn't worry about them; of course, he does. But any decision he might make at some future date about discontinuing treatment needs to be based on his feelings, not mine.”

“Which is,” Tolliver said, nodding, “my exact point. You're very good at defining your limits,” she added admiringly.

“Why, thank you. I can't take all of the credit, however; I have an excellent therapist of my own.”

“You do?” Sid blurted out.

Andrew nodded. “We don't meet regularly at this point. But I saw her twice a week for three or four years, and once a week for a number of years after that.” He was, Sid realized, wearing his version of a wry face. “What, you thought I was born so . . . together?”

“Yes,” Sid replied honestly.

Andrew laughed. “Hardly.”

“No one is born 'together,' Mr. Crosby; however, some people are able to fake it better than others. Now, there's one other topic I think we should address before you decide if you want to undertake therapy with me. Or even if you want to think more about doing so. One of the first things I will have you do, should we meet again, is list as many of your ritualized behaviors as you can, and order them in a couple of different ways. Most severe to least is one way. Relative importance is another. I also ask my patients—particularly patients like you—to try and decide if a behavior belongs in the realm of OCD, or if, in their opinion, it is simply part and parcel of life. I'll explain more fully if and when we get to that point, but I must ask you a very important question now, Mr. Crosby. To what extent is Mr. Copley implicated in your rituals?”

Sid's stomach dropped. He hoped the only thing that showed on his face was puzzlement. “Could you say that another way, please? I'm not sure I understand what you're asking. And to be honest: I don't like the way 'implicated' sounds.”

“I apologize, Mr. Crosby; 'implicated' has a specific medical connotation. Let me rephrase: have you incorporated Mr. Copley, either directly or indirectly, in any of your rituals?”

“Oh. Sorry. Now I get it.” Sid looked at Andrew. Who had an expression of polite interest on his face. And Sid smiled. “Well, we do . . . couples things. Maybe some of those would qualify. Kind of.”

“Why don't you give me an example.”

Sid smiled at her this time. “One of our favorite things to do is lie in bed together, and Andrew will sing me a song before I go to sleep. I love that. And, uh, I think he does too?” He looked over, and Andrew gave him a smiling nod.

“Do you worry about whether or not you'll be sung to? Do you get anxious if you're not sung to? Actually, that raises another question. Do the two of you live together?”

Both Sid and Andrew burst out laughing.

“I wish,” Sid said sincerely. “Dr. Tolliver, I don't think you know who Andrew is. He's an opera singer. He's the best tenor singing today. And he travels as much as, if not more than, I do. So, no, we don't live together. We spend as much time together as we can, but . . . Andrew, have we even spent a month together with each other this year?”

“I don't know exactly; certainly not much more than that.”

“So, no, Dr. Tolliver, I don't worry about getting my song. It's much more likely that I won't get it. Which makes it real nice when it happens, for sure.”

Tolliver seemed to consider Sid's words. “Give me another example of what you called 'couples things.'”

“Uh . . . okay. If one of us asks a question, then the other one gets to ask one too. When we are together, whoever gets into bed first turns the covers down for the other one. Stuff like that.”

“I see.” And after a moment, she said, “And does he figure in any non-couple-related rituals?”

Sid forced himself not to lean forward. After a minute, he said, “He could have. Andrew is my first real relationship. Um, emotional relationship, I mean. And maybe, at the beginning, I could feel an . . . impulse, I guess, to maybe . . . uh, build him in. I really, really wanted . . . well, want . . . Andrew to be part of my life. So, it's not a real stretch. But: we're hardly ever physically together. So if I . . . incorporated? That's the word you used, right?”

She nodded.

“If I did that, there's absolutely no guarantee that I could do the routine right, about 90 percent of the time. Because he wouldn't be around. So I guess I talked myself out of it. Which I've only managed a couple of times in my entire life, but maybe it's because this is so important. 'Cause if I got mad at him for fucking up my routine just because he's earning a living, that's . . . pretty shitty. If you want to know the truth, I think I have less obsessions and routines with Andrew than I do with most other people. Even before we started dating. I remember I borrowed a pair of his socks once; it didn't even occur to me 'til I got home that I maybe should have been freaked out. The last time I wore somebody else's clothes, I was in high school. It was by mistake. And I had a major melt-down.”

“Interesting.” She stared into space briefly, before her face cleared. “Well, thank you for your candor, Mr. Crosby. All of that is good to know. And potentially, very helpful for you. Because if Mr. Copley _were_ implicated in any of your obsessive behaviors, then it would be almost impossible for him to truly help you in combating them.

“So. Let me tell you how I envision this treatment. And then, it's up to you to decide if you want to continue. Does that sound good?”

Sid nodded. “Really good. Great, in fact.”

**********

When they stood up at the end of the session, Andrew said, “Dr. Tolliver. One other thing. My father . . . well, all of us, but my father in particular, is quite concerned with Sidney's privacy.” He paused, and then shook his head. “There's no good way to say this, so I'll just be blunt. My father believes that your current network security is inadequate. He estimates that it would take him about nine seconds to infiltrate your firewall, and in less than a minute, he could access any and all information on any computer in this office. He wanted me to ask you if you would allow him to improve things. Gratis, of course.”

Tolliver blinked. “I'm certainly no expert, but . . . I wonder if your father is exaggerating just a little. We used a highly reputable firm to set up our network.”

“I'm sure you did. But . . . Dad doesn't exaggerate about things like this. Would you agree to a little test?”

“Certainly. I'm . . . intrigued.”

Andrew took out his phone: “Dr. Tolliver agreed, Dad.” He touched a button; Sid leaned over and looked: he'd started a stopwatch. And when it read “0:45,” Andrew's voice started coming out of the computer on the desk.

Tolliver stared at the computer in astonishment; a few seconds later, she started to laugh. “Please tell your father I accept.” She shook her head. Ruefully. “Sid: until Andrew's father is satisfied, I won't enter any of your information into the computer. Is that sufficient?”

“That's fine, Dr. Tolliver.” Sid cocked his head and listened for a few seconds. And then smiled brightly. “Rossini. One of my favorites.” He hoped he was right.

**********

As soon as they left the office (through a different door, which Sid really liked, since that meant he could avoid the waiting room), he said to Andrew, “You know, I can't believe your dad sometimes. In a million years, I wouldn't have thought of that.”

“I don't think I would have either; I would have assumed that anybody dealing with sensitive information would be better protected. But it's a good thing he did; I think _I_ could have hacked in there, and I'm about a millionth as talented as Dad is. It's also a good thing she agreed, because I think Dad would have done it anyway.” He pushed open the door and held it for Sid. “One of these days, he's going to get caught. He looks terrible in orange.”

Sid laughed as he fumbled for his sunglasses. His hand brushed against his chest as he went to put them on, and remembering, he stopped short. And took a couple of deep breaths.

“Is something wrong?”

“I got distracted, talking about your dad. Give me a minute, okay? It's been a long, long time since I went outside without my necklace.”

“I know I've never seen you do so. And only seldom even indoors: often it's the only thing you _are_ wearing.” He chuckled—lewdly—and that was enough to embolden Sid. He took a couple of steps, and gradually, they became less tentative.

“Okay,” he said, when they reached the car. “I can maybe do this. She's pretty hard-core, isn't she?”

“She is. And rather inventive, I will say. Not to mention perceptive.”

“Fuck. I swear she could tell how long it's been since I changed my underwear.”

Andrew laughed as he started the engine. He checked the mirrors—and then his eyebrows went on alert.

“Well, well,” he said. “Look behind us—discreetly, please.”

Sid did—and his jaw dropped. “I don't fucking believe it.” He watched Brad Marchand pocket his keys and cross the small parking area until he disappeared—presumably around to the front entrance. “Do you think. . . ?”

“I wouldn't be surprised. I _thought_ she seemed pretty conversant with hockey rituals. Certainly more than I am. And she did say she had other patients who played professionally.”

“I know. But Brad? I never would have guessed. We've played together; we were practically next to each other in the dressing room in Vancouver. I didn't even get a hint.” Sid huffed out a laugh. “Something else we have in common.”

“Sidney, you don't know for sure; he could be seeing a different . . . wait. Something _else_?”

Striving for a straight (hah!) face, Sid said, “Well, we're both Canadian. And we both play hockey.”

“Don't be redundant. You and Brad? Seriously?”

“Only a couple of times. Well, one and a half.” Sid cleared his throat. “We're not . . . exactly compatible. Uh, in bed.”

After a couple of seconds, Andrew said, “I'm trying really, really hard not to ask. I don't know how much longer I can hold out.”

“Well, try harder.” Then Sid added primly, “Some things are private.”

Andrew snorted so loudly that Sid would swear it echoed. “I can't believe you said that. You? The man who badgered me incessantly until I revealed some of the things Mrs. Staal told me about her sons?”

“Sasha, that's totally different.”

“How so?”

“First of all, it doesn't involve me. And second, the Staal stuff was absolutely incredible; it would have been a crime to keep it to yourself. And what do you mean, 'some of the things'? There's more?”

Andrew smiled. And then pretended to lock his lips. And throw away the key.

Sid pouted. And listened to Andrew hum. After about half a mile, he gave up.

“Maybe we can make a deal.”

**********

When they got back to Andrew's parents house, Sid said, not for the first time, “You're sure your parents don't mind us practically moving in here?”

“How many times are you going to ask that question? You know they don't. They've told you so.” Andrew paused with his hand on the refrigerator door. “Iced tea? Lemonade? Beer? Wine?”

“I think I've earned a beer. Or twelve.”

“Possibly even more. But don't get too stinko; save some for later. I have it on good authority that Dad is planning a special meal for tonight. To reward you for your efforts.”

Sid was touched. “That's so nice of him. What are we going to have?”

“I don't know. If I had to guess, something involving a flaming grill and large slabs of beef; you'll have to remind him you don't like it rare.”

“I like it kind of rare now. Thanks to you. But definitely not as rare as you do.” Sid took the proffered bottle. “Want to sit in the garden?”

“Sure, if you're up for it. Not too much outside? Given the day you've had?”

“I think I can handle it. For a little while, anyway. And you know I'll tell you if I need to come back in.”

“Well, good.”

Sid really loved the Copley's flower garden. It wasn't fancy at all, but there was so much color, and all the plants seemed to go together, as if they'd always been there, and always would. Sid was especially taken by the hollyhocks, which wasn't a flower he'd ever paid much attention to before; they were coming out strong right now, mostly pale yellow and pink, but mixed with a few crimson ones so dark they were almost black. He collapsed gratefully into “his” chair, saluted Andrew with his beer, and swallowed deeply. He let his mind drift as the afternoon sun, even filtered as it was through the vine-covered pergola, toasted him. Comfortingly.

When he roused himself, he found Andrew studying him.

“What? Is something wrong?”

“Not at all. You just seemed so at peace; I was . . . savoring it. You haven't had much peace lately, _mon oie_ ; I'm sorry for that.”

“Well, thanks. But you don't have to be sorry . . . oh, wait. Yes, you do. You have to be incredibly sorry for me, and wait on me hand and foot. And do everything you can to make me happy.”

Andrew's left eyebrow looked very amused. “Hand and foot? How about hands and knees? Or, better yet, just knees?”

“Uh, hold that thought, okay? 'Til I'm a little less strung out? Today was exhausting. How did you think it went?”

“Quite well, actually,” Andrew said after a few moments reflection; “at least, the parts that I saw.” He leaned forward and retrieved his glass of iced tea. After drinking, he slouched in his chair, extended his leg, and poked Sid in the thigh with his toes.

“You, my dear Captain Crosby, can lie like a rug. I had no idea.”

“ _I_ have no idea what you're talking about.” Sid closed his eyes. And smiled.

And grabbed Andrew's foot when it essayed another attack.

“The same play almost never works twice in a row, Sasha,” he informed his boyfriend, without opening his eyes.

“You have marvelous reflexes. But for the record? If you tickle the bottom of my foot, I will throw you in the pool.”

“That's supposed to be a threat? I love pools—well, when they've just been cleaned, like your parents' was this morning; they have so much bleach in them then.” But Sid squeezed once, and then let go. And opened his eyes.

“You could tell I was lying?”

“I was fairly certain.”

“Do you think she could?”

Andrew shook his head. “I doubt it; you were quite convincing. She may suspect you were leaving things out—I imagine most doctors think all of their patients leave things out—but she doesn't strike me as the kind of person who wouldn't pursue things further if she weren't satisfied. No, I think she accepted your story—at least for the moment.”

“Good.” It was Sid's turn to study Andrew. He couldn't really tell. . . .

“Are you mad at me?” he asked abruptly.

A lazily inquisitive eyebrow. “Why would I be?”

“Don't make me roll my eyes at you, Andrew.”

Andrew grinned, but remained silent.

“Okay, fine,” Sid huffed. “Are you flipped out because you _are_ implicated—fuck, I _really_ hate that word!—in some of my routines?”

“No, I am not flipped out. Nor am I mad. I will confess to a certain amount of . . . oh, I don't know. Uneasiness? Disquietude? One of those would serve, I think. But how about this: I did feel a little odd initially, when I first found out. But I talked it over with Mom and Dad, the first night we got here, and they told me I was being foolish. Well, Mom told me I was being foolish; Dad told me I was being an idiot.”

“They did? You were? About what, exactly?”

“It's silly, really.”

Sid stared at Andrew. Intently.

“Sidney: are you going to make me say it out loud?”

“Of course I am,” Sid laughed. “I need all the ammunition I can get with you, Sasha.”

“I wasn't aware that we were at war. Well, if you insist. I . . . wondered if I were just some kind of . . . oh, I don't know, _talisman_ , or something. A lucky charm. If you were in some way fetishizing me. Like that disgusting cup of yours.” He shuddered ostentatiously. “And didn't _that_ little comparison make me feel unclean. I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to the day when Dr. Tolliver makes you burn that thing.”

“Don't even joke about that. Seriously. That's one of my oldest . . . uh, traditions. That one might have to wait until I retire.” Sid took a couple of deep breaths. “What did your parents say?”

“Essentially, they said that it—and by it, I mean, your relying on my presence, either physical or metaphorical—was perfectly reasonable behavior. Even Mom. She said flat out that she believes she gives better speeches when Dad's in the room too. That she's more at ease when he's there. That negotiations go more smoothly when it's the two of them. And Dad said that all couples who are . . . well, who have connections the way you and I do, think that the other person brings them luck. And since I try my best to outdo myself when I know you're in the audience, why shouldn't you?”

“Do you really?” Sid was . . . thrilled.

“Of course I do! Do you honestly think I sing things like that _cavatina di Crosby_ all the time? Hardly. Anyway: what they said made so much sense that I decided I needn't worry about it. Obviously, I don't know what goes on in your mind, Sidney, but I _like_ wishing you a good game, and telling you to play well. It's . . . satisfying for me. It makes me feel like . . . well, that I'm part of that aspect of your life.” He gave Sid a crooked smile. “It _is_ a rather important piece of your existence, after all.”

In that moment, Sid had an epiphany: a blazing instant of realization, that actually explained a number of things he'd found puzzling about Andrew. Even though he wanted to blurt it out, he forced himself to tuck it away, so that he could examine it later. In private. At length. Instead, he stood up, moved behind Andrew's chair, leaned over, and wrapped his arms around Andrew's chest.

“It is,” he agreed. “And so are you.” He kissed the top of Andrew's head. “Very important.” He squatted slightly, so he could rest his chin on Andrew's shoulder. “What time do you think your parents will be home?”

“Maybe a couple of hours. No later than six-thirty, probably. Why?”

“Well, I have to go spend some quality time in the shower. And I was wondering if you'd be interested in . . . visiting me there. Say, 30 or 35 minutes after I go in.” That should be more than enough time. And Andrew's joining him might make up for the loss of his necklace.

“Well, the idea is certainly appealing,” Andrew said with a grin, “but I'm not convinced Dr. Tolliver would approve. Wouldn't you be incorporating me into one of your rituals?”

“Of course not,” Sid said virtuously. “You'd be part of the solution, not part of the problem.”

“Oh, well then,” Andrew said, not trying in the slightest to hide his laughter; “that makes all the difference!”

**********

“What are your plans for tomorrow, _mon oie_?” asked Andrew, as they stood in the kitchen cleaning up after dinner. Daniel had outdone himself, with two kinds of steak—beef and tuna—with grilled onions. Andrew had contributed some kind of vaguely Mexican bean salad—he seemed determined to increase Sid's tolerance for spicy food, and so far, it was working—and some grilled potatoes that he called planks and that Sid called delicious. Plus, of course, regular salad. Elisabeth's dressing was even better than Andrew's; Sid would have felt disloyal even thinking that, except that Andrew said it out loud first. And admiringly.

“I don't know exactly,” Sid confessed. “I should start on my homework for Tolliver; that could take forever.”

“Well, if you want my advice, type your answers in a spreadsheet. Then it'll be a snap to organize them. I will even,” Andrew added with a sly grin, “build a template for you. In the interests of efficiency.”

“Won't that take a long time?” Sid asked.

“Five minutes. And that's if I get fancy. Anything else? Remember, I have to go into the office with Mom and Dad; you're welcome to come, but I have no idea how long it'll take.”

“I think I'll pass; I'd like to get started on the lists. And I should call home.” Sid made a face. “I still haven't decided what I'm going to tell my parents.”

“Tell them the truth: that you heard about a doctor affiliated with Mass General who has a stellar record treating cases like yours. You can even openly call it therapy. Since they'll think you mean physical therapy.”

“You're probably right,” Sid said, after a minute. “Of course, I need to find a place to have PT too.” He shifted his arm experimentally. “And I know I can do basic workouts here, or at your place, but I'd love to find a place to practice. Or even just skate. I miss the ice.”

Andrew's brow wrinkled in thought. “Why . . . why don't you call Brad? I'll bet he knows all the best places. Or all the available places, at least. And you know he's in town. Are you friendly enough with him to feel comfortable doing that?”

“I guess.” Sid was kind of surprised his reluctance wasn't stronger. “I could maybe tell him the same thing I'll tell my parents. I'll decide tomorrow.” He looked at the microwave clock. “I should call Taylor now. Get the lay of the land.”

“You do that. I think I'll have a swim. Why don't you get your phone and call Taylor by the pool? If you feel like being outside, that is.”

Sid checked in with his head. “I think . . . better if I call Taylor from inside. And then, assuming nothing sets me off, I'll maybe join you.”

“Okay.” Andrew darted in for a quick kiss. Well, he probably intended it to be quick; Sid had other ideas.

**********

As he was heading outside, Sid almost collided with Daniel and Elisabeth.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “Have you been in the pool?”

“Nothing like a moonlit swim, eh Lis?”

“It's very lovely out tonight. You should try it, Sidney.”

“Maybe I will.” And he might, actually. “Although I don't know if I brought my suit with me. Andrew did most of the packing.”

Daniel laughed, and Elisabeth said dryly, “I wouldn't worry about it, Sidney; ten to one Sasha took his off the minute we left.”

Really? Now Sid was actually eager to go outside. But first. . . .

“I hope I'm not being rude: but at dinner, you two seemed, I don't know, kind of . . . abstracted. Is everything okay?” He hoped they weren't regretting his practically moving in.

But Daniel clapped him on the shoulder, and said, “We're fine, my boy. Some unusual things at the office, that's all.”

“Nothing bad, I hope.”

“I doubt it.” He sounded sure; Elisabeth, on the other hand, seemed a bit more doubtful. But she smiled, and said, “Not at all; merely unexpected.”

“Well, speaking for myself, the unexpected can be pretty bad, Sid said, making a face. “I doubt there's anything I could do, but . . . if there is? I hope you'll tell me.”

“Thank you, my dear.” And standing on her toes (he was always surprised when she had to do that; the last thing she seemed was short), she kissed his cheeks and then his forehead. Then she patted his arm. “Now, go join Sasha. Enjoy the rest of your evening.”

“You too.”

Daniel winked. “Oh, we will.”

Sid started to blush. And the Copleys started to laugh. Well, Daniel laughed. Elisabeth smirked.

Sid escaped.

He walked down to the pool; Andrew had turned the lights off, but it was a cloudless night and the moon was almost full. It was hard to believe that they were practically in a city; he wondered how much land the Copleys had.

Andrew's head popped up from the water; he looked sleek, like a seal.

“Your parents are too much,” Sid remarked, crouching by the side of the pool.

“Too much what?”

“You name it.”

Andrew laughed. He swam over and held on to the side. “How's Taylor?”

“She's good. She said to say hello. She still won't give up on the hooker jokes; she told me I need to give you bigger tips.”

“Really? I'm not sure I could swallow anything bigger.”

Sid almost fell into the pool.

“Are you coming in?”

“I don't know,” Sid said, still laughing a little. He peered down. “Are you wearing anything? Besides that grin, I mean?”

“Nope. Is that an enticement, or a deterrent?”

“Definitely the first thing.” He looked around. “Nobody can see, right?”

“They'd have to be in the house. In the daylight. And deliberately looking. I wouldn't worry about it.”

Sid considered . . . and then shook his head.

“As much as I might like to: I think that'd be going a little overboard for me today. Plus, I can't exactly exert my arm too much. When I turned my phone on, there was a message from my physical therapist in Halifax. Yelling at me for canceling. I definitely have to deal with that.”

“You should. When does training camp begin?”

“I usually go back to Pittsburgh at the end of August. Training starts a little after Labor Day.” He reached down and tapped Andrew's nose. “It'll be a year since we met, then.”

“And what a year it's been.”

They smiled at each other.

“Well, if you're not swimming, then I think I'm done.” He hoisted himself up, and padded over to his towel. “Are you tired?”

“A little. More mentally than physically.”

“Feel like having a drink before bed then?”

“Sure.” Sid followed Andrew into the house.

“I'll just be a minute.” Andrew took the stairs two at a time, leaving footprints on the wood.

Sid wandered into the kitchen, and was staring into space when Andrew got back, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt that had both seen better days.

“What are you in the mood for?”

“Nothing too strong. How about a Zen Garden?”

“Coming right up.”

“You know,” Sid remarked, “it's kind of weird seeing you dressed like that. You wear suits even more than I do, and even your casual clothes are kind of dressy.”

“Well, we hardly ever get to hang out in private. And when we do, we're usually not wearing anything.”

“This is true. Thanks.”

“You're welcome. To your good health, Captain Crosby.”

“Yours too.” They clinked.

“Let's go sit in the living room.” So they did. And Sid was . . . pleased when Andrew drew him closer after they'd plopped down on the couch. He had never imagined that he'd be so addicted to snuggling.

“I've been wondering something,” he said out loud. “Why is it that you're so special?”

“Sidney, please: my modesty.”

For form's sake, Sid elbowed him. “Okay, I could maybe have phrased that better, I guess. But seriously: why do I react differently to you than to almost everybody else in the world? I mean, it's not like I haven't been aware of it, practically since the day we met. Or, actually, _since_ the day we met. But . . . I guess, what with my flare-up, and now, seeing the doctor, and actually getting a diagnosis, and talking openly about my routines and shit for the first fucking time in my life, it's really crystal clear that you're different. Is it you? Or is it me? And what is it? And why?”

Andrew lifted his glass; he had that crease between his eyes that meant he was thinking. After he drank, he said, “I don't know that I have the answers to most of those questions, Sidney. For sure, anyway. I might have a supposition about the 'why.'”

“Really?”

Andrew nodded. “To be precise: I have a supposition about how _I_ would answer that question. About why I act differently with you than with anybody else.”

“Want to share?” Sid took a sip of his own drink.

“Perhaps.” Sid looked over, expecting to see one of his chirping expressions, but instead . . . Andrew looked serious. Very serious.

“What?”

Andrew turned slightly. “Sidney . . . may I ask you a question?”

There was something in his voice. . . . “Of course.”

“Do you think you're up to hearing the story of what happened to me as a teenager? Or was today—and everything leading up to it, I suppose—too overwhelming?”

Sid didn't even have to check in with his head. “If you feel like talking about it, then of course I'm up for it.” He'd wanted to know for months. “Although I do have to point out that that was two questions, Sasha.”

“My apologies.” Andrew leaned back and closed his eyes for a second or two.

“All right, then. I'm going to apologize in advance in case my . . . narrative . . . is a little disjointed; this isn't something that I talk about a lot. In fact, I haven't talked about it in any detail in, oh, ten years or so. To be honest, since it happened, I've never talked about it at all to anyone other than my parents and my therapist.” He gave Sid an assessing look. “Although: I would wager good money that you've figured at least part of it out.”

“Maybe I have,” Sid smiled a little. “That doesn't mean I don't want to hear it from you.”

“Well, fine. Here it is, then. And afterwards, you'll have to tell me how close you came.” He took another swallow of his drink.

“At the beginning of my sophomore year—literally: it was the very first day—I met someone. He was new—his parents had recently moved here, because, irony of ironies, his father had just been hired by _my_ father. We sat next to each other in homeroom (his last name was Cooke). And almost instantly, we hit it off. So I introduced him to my small circle of friends.”

“The thugs, right?”

Andrew laughed a little. “That's right. And soon . . . we became inseparable. Essentially, my life was singing, school, and Cliff.”

“That's his name? Cliff?”

“It is. Clifford Creighton Cooke.”

If Sid hadn't hated him already, he would have hated him instantly on the strength of his name alone. Evidently, Andrew could tell, because he went on, “His mother chose the name, and, not to anticipate my story too much, she was _exactly_ the kind of person who would name her child something like that. She was from the South, the sort of die-hard Southerner who refused to believe that the Confederate Army had ever been defeated. I suppose she came by it honestly; Cliff once showed me a picture of him with his grandparents at their house in South Carolina; they actually had a statue of a black jockey on their front lawn. In the 1990's.” He shook his head in disbelief. Then his mouth quirked. “Please forgive my language, but she was, not to mince words, an utter and complete twat.”

_That_ certainly startled a laugh out of Sid.

“His father, on the other hand, was an absolutely wonderful man; God only knows why he married her. She ruled their house like a tyrant: iron fist in titanium glove, but always with this little smile on her face. She _simpered_.” He shook his head again—in disgust, this time. “Mom _loathed_ her from the moment they met.”

“How long did she live?” Sid asked, only half-joking.

“Too long. Anyway. With that background, it will, perhaps, come as no surprise to you that she was one of those people who justified her homophobia by citing the Bible. Which had the potential to be a major problem once Cliff and I became boyfriends. Which we did—well before Christmas break. We didn't make any announcements or anything like that—in retrospect, I suppose we were fairly discreet—but I think more than a few people at school knew. Mom and Dad knew, of course, but they didn't say anything to anybody. Including me. I imagine they were waiting for me to say something. And I suspected they knew, but for whatever reason, I didn't want to say anything to them. When I was in therapy later on, I wondered if my silence was due to the fact that obviously, Cliff couldn't say anything to that harpy of a mother of his, so I was silent too, in solidarity.” He shrugged. “My therapist thought it was likely, but who knows. I certainly didn't think anything of the kind at the time. Consciously, at least.”

He swallowed the rest of his drink and stood up. “This is where the story gets dicey. I need another; how about you?”

“I'm good.” Andrew nodded, and left the room. When he came back, he had a different glass, filled with ice and clear liquid that Sid didn't have to be told wasn't water.

“So. There we were, two turtledoves billing and cooing all over the place. Dreaming about happily ever afters, and talking endlessly about spending the rest of our lives together. We both did it; I, at least, meant it. And, of course, having awkward, teen-aged sex every chance we could. And as you probably know, when you're that age, you can do it a _lot_. And when you do it as much as we did—and when you have parents who decidedly did not believe in censorship, which mine, and perhaps Cliff's father, did not—then you have the resources to get better at it relatively quickly. And, somewhat surprisingly, the better you get at it, the longer you want it to last. At least, that was my experience; Cliff never did grow out of his hair-trigger—at least, not that I know of.” He took a generous swallow.

“And then it was spring vacation. Friday afternoon, so we had the whole next week to look forward to. It was just before Easter, so Mrs. Cooke was out having her hair lacquered or freeze-dried or something. It was a rarity for us to be alone at Cliff's house, and so naturally we took full advantage of it. And Cliff was in the process of giving me a blow job, which I was making last as long as possible, when his mother swept in like the plague. And all fucking hell broke loose.”

He lifted his glass again—only to put it down without drinking. “I should probably pace myself.” He then huffed out a laugh; “To quote you: wry face.”

Sid leaned over and hugged him. “What happened?”

Looking straight ahead, Andrew said, in as expressionless a tone as Sid had ever heard from him, “She called the police.”

Sid's jaw dropped. “You're kidding.”

“I'm not.” And then: “Fuck pacing.” He drank deeply.

“So the police came. And the first thing they asked us was our age. We were both fifteen, which made what we were doing a crime: in Massachusetts, the age of consent is sixteen. But as one of the two officers pointed out to Mrs. Cooke, pursuing it meant we would both have to be charged. Plus, it was—obviously—gay sex. Which adds something to the mix. To be honest, I think they were inclined to just sweep everything under the rug, except that she started ranting at them—she was in a complete frenzy—and it probably didn't help matters that Cliff had been having hysterics pretty much nonstop ever since she'd gotten home. I was calmer—a little, anyway—and one of the officers clearly found that troubling.

“But before things could escalate any further, Cliff's father came home. And he talked to the police officers in the next room, and somehow defused the whole situation; I later found out he basically said, 'All boys experiment. And my wife's a nut job about sex. Of any kind.' Which probably made them feel incredibly sympathetic towards him. So they left. Which infuriated Mrs. Cooke. Who'd used the time he was talking to the police to call my parents. Which infuriated Mr. Cooke. And meanwhile, Cliff is still sobbing.

“Mr. Cooke tried to calm Cliff down, which wasn't easy, what with his wife still doing her banshee impersonation. And she's haranguing Mr. Cooke and Cliff, and she shrieks at Cliff, 'How could you do such an abominable thing?'

“And Cliff pointed to me and said, 'He forced me.' And . . . oh, Sidney.” He closed his eyes. “I don't think I have the words to describe what I felt when he said that. I had this . . . overload of emotions. And then . . . I just shut down. All I wanted was to just lock myself in a dark room and never look at, or speak to, another human being ever, ever again.”

Sid grabbed his hand and held on. Tightly. “Oh, Sasha. . . .”

Andrew shook his head. “Let me finish. So. Mrs. Cooke starts calling me a rapist. Repeatedly. And Mr. Cooke . . . he just lost it. He told his wife to shut up, and he told Cliff to shut up, and he turned to me. And he asked me, 'Did you force Cliff to have sex with you?'

“And I shook my head. And then, I managed to say, 'No.'

“And he just looked at me for a couple of seconds before he said, 'Of course you didn't.' And then he hugged me. And I . . . I wanted to cry, Sidney, but I couldn't. I couldn't do anything but stand there and listen. To Mrs. Cooke shrieking at him, over and over, 'Why? Why would you believe him over your own son?' And to him, asking Cliff, 'Why did you lie?' And to Cliff, who was incoherent with hysteria. Again.”

“And that, of course, is when Mom and Dad showed up.” He shut his eyes again, briefly. “And you probably won't be surprised to hear that they took charge.”

“I'm not. At all. Did your mom annihilate her?”

“Actually, no. She calmed Cliff down, and Dad took on Mrs. Cooke. And Mr. Cooke hovered over me. God, it must have been excruciating for him: his bosses. His bosses' son. His own son. And his wife.” He shook his head. “To be honest, I don't really remember everything that happened after that. I was . . . numb, I suppose. The only thing I remember clearly is Dad asking her incredulously, 'Forced him? Into fellatio? Have you never heard of teeth?'”

Sid let out one explosive honk before he stopped himself, appalled. “Fuck, Sasha; I'm so sorry! I shouldn't laugh.”

Andrew patted him. “Don't worry about it, Sidney. It is kind of funny. Now, I mean.” His grin, while a pale vestige of his usual ebullience, nonetheless seemed genuine. “I mean, can't you just hear him say that?”

“I can. I guess that's why I laughed. He's so . . . consistent.”

That comment actually made Andrew chuckle. Then he drained his glass again.

“Drink up, _mon oie_. I'm getting shit-faced tonight, and I hate drinking alone.”

Sid complied. “Sasha, that sounds like a fucking excellent plan.”

“Why, thank you, Sidney. Unfortunately, finishing this story is not nearly as excellent as fucking would be.” He pushed himself off of the couch and headed towards the kitchen. He seemed completely steady, but Sid followed him anyway. And watched him make a Zen Garden. If he hadn't known how much Andrew had already had to drink, he would have sworn he was completely sober.

“Why'd you switch to vodka?” Sid asked, more out of a desire to break the silence than out of curiosity.

Andrew stopped what he was doing and thought about it. “You know,” he said finally, “I didn't even realize it. It was an unconscious choice, I suppose. You see, to jump ahead in my narrative a little, I was still out of it when we finally got home that night. Looking back on it, I suppose I was experiencing some sort of dissociative state. Probably not a fugue—well, who knows. And Mom and Dad were getting very concerned.

_“Babushka_ Svetlana was living with us then, and she demanded the whole story. And then she announced that what I needed was vodka. So we all got drunk. Well: I certainly did. I'd never had straight vodka before that, only wine, beer, and mixed drinks. It was . . . enlightening. And it did seem to help. I felt a lot better—well, until the next morning, anyway.”

He peered at Sidney. “You've never seen me really drunk, have you?”

“I don't think I've ever seen you even _close_ to drunk.”

“Well, chances are, you will tonight. And then tomorrow you will see me with a hangover. I'm warning you: it won't be pretty. But there's a bonus in it for you.”

“For me?”

Andrew nodded solemnly. “More of Svetlana's wisdom. The morning after, eggs with cheese, home fries, and undercooked bacon are _essential_.”

Sid considered. “How are the eggs cooked?”

“Either scrambled or as an omelet.”

“I vote for the omelet.”

“Noted.” Andrew handed Sid his drink, and poured his own. When they were settled again, he took a sip—a small sip, Sid noticed. And of course, Andrew noticed him noticing.

“I truly am pacing myself now,” he said. “I honestly do not want to be drunk for the rest of this; I have some important things to say, and I want to say them while I'm still relatively _compos mentis_.

“I spent the weekend gradually thawing out. But I did not feel . . . well, like myself. I felt almost as if I were a spectator: somebody watching a play or something like that. I didn't talk much. Everybody was . . . worried. Except for me. I didn't really care. About anything.

“And then, Sunday afternoon, the doorbell rang. And it was Mr. Cooke. Alone. And he asked if he could talk with Dad. So, of course, Dad said okay, and they went into his study. And after a while, Dad came back and said, 'Mr. Cooke wants to talk to you, Sasha. You certainly don't have to, if you don't want to; he'll understand if you don't.'

“I thought about it, and then I figured, 'Why not?' After all, _he_ hadn't done anything bad. So I went into the study, and Dad got Mom, and we all sat down.

“And Mr. Cooke apologized for what had happened. He didn't . . . oh, denigrate will do, I suppose . . . his wife, but he made it plain that he thought her behavior was reprehensible, and that he didn't subscribe to her belief system: in general, and particularly as it related to gays.

“I thanked him. And I guess I thought that was it. But . . . I couldn't help myself. So I asked how Cliff was doing. And he looked at me for a bit, and then he said, 'Not very good.' And then. . . .” Andrew broke off and bit his lip. “This is maybe the worst part.”

Sid had a sinking feeling he knew what was coming. But he was wrong.

“Mr. Cooke told me that he'd had a long talk with Cliff. One on one. And that Cliff finally admitted to him that he had, in fact, lied about my forcing him. And in the process of trying to discuss _why_ he'd lied, Cliff also admitted that he'd lied about something else. He'd lied to me about what time his mother's appointment was. He'd _engineered_ that whole discovery scene. He wanted his parents to know, but he wanted them to find out in such a way that _he_ wouldn't be blamed for it. And he assumed nothing would happen to me, because my father was his father's boss.”

Andrew closed his eyes for a minute; the only noise in the room was the faint hum of the air conditioner, and Sid found himself studying the rapid pulsing just visible over the collar of Andrew's t-shirt. Then Andrew looked directly at him.

“Sidney: I can't adequately express what I felt when I heard that. It wasn't like Friday night, when after the first explosion of emotion, I didn't feel much at all. This was very different: I was conscious of feeling any number of separate things. One was an acute sense of loss, as if a part of me had been ripped out of my body. Another was . . . betrayal. I felt _that_ to my bones. And I sat there, shaking with it. And then, I was filled—totally and completely suffused—with rage.

“And I stood up, picked up the chair I'd been sitting in, and hurled it through the window.

“Mom and Dad didn't bat an eye. Mr. Cooke, on the other hand, looked like I'd just turned into the Incredible Hulk. Or maybe Mr. Hyde—if he was the monstrous one; I've never actually read that book. It was,” Andrew added, after taking another small sip, “the first time I'd ever lost my temper so spectacularly. Or, to use Zhenya's phrase, let the Russian out.”

“What happened then?”

“I suppose I thought that my . . . gesture had said everything that was necessary. So I thanked Mr. Cooke for telling me.”

Sid tried to imagine it—and succeeded.

“And then I excused myself and went up to my room. Where I cried for a very, very long time.” He stared meditatively into space for a while. “When I went downstairs again, Dad told me that Mr. Cooke had offered to resign from SCE. Which made absolutely no sense to me, so I asked him why.

“Dad shrugged. And told me, 'He feels bad about what happened. He wants to do something to make amends.' And then he said, 'I told him that I'd leave that decision up to you. And I mean it: whatever you want, Sasha. Think about it.'

“So I did. And the next day, I went into the office with Mom and Dad, where we met with Mr. Cooke. And I told him that I didn't want him to resign. 'You didn't do anything wrong,' I said. 'You shouldn't have to pay the price for other people's actions. It's not fair.' He started to say something about that's what you did when you had a family, only I interrupted him. Which was terribly rude, but I didn't exactly want to hear about his family; instead, I told him, 'You were the only one who was nice to me. You believed me. I don't want you to suffer for something they did.' He studied me for a minute, and then he agreed. However, _then_ I said, 'But I do want something.' And Mom and Dad sat up straight—'cause they had no idea what I was going to say. But Mr. Cooke just asked me, 'What?'

“I told him, 'I want you to give Cliff a message. You tell him that he is never to speak to me again. I don't ever want to hear another word out of his mouth. And I want you to make it clear to him that he is not to tell _anybody_ at school about what happened. It's going to be pretty obvious that _something_ happened, but all I'm going to say is that your wife found out I was gay, and told Cliff he couldn't be my friend any more. And you let him know that if he _ever_ tells anybody anything different, I will hurt him. Badly.'

“Mr. Cooke just looked at me for a while in silence, before he said, 'I believe you. And I think that you're being very fair. I'll make sure he understands.'

“I said, 'Good.' And then I asked him something. Something that I really, really wanted to know. 'You believed me and not him. Why?'

“He smiled at me. It was a kind of sad smile. And said, 'Andrew, I suspected that the two of you had been involved for a while. The way you looked at Cliff? Anybody could see that you loved him.' And he stood up and asked me, 'Can I have a hug?' So I hugged him, and he whispered in my ear, 'I'm sorry. I'm going to miss having you in my life.' And you know what, Sidney?”

“What?”

“I've done a bunch of things in my life that I'm not particularly proud of. And, I hope, a greater number of things that I can be proud of. But one of the things that I'm most proud of, is that I said to Mr. Cooke, 'You are my friend. And we can be friends for as long as you want.'”

His mouth quirked. “Then again, I'm not particularly proud of what I said after that. Which was, 'Just don't ever mention your wife or Cliff to me again.' But what the hell; I was only fifteen.” He laughed a little. “He still works for Dad, you know. And every so often, we get together for lunch.”

Shaking his head, Sid commented, “You're unbelievable. I'd never be able to do that.”

“You never know, Sidney. You have a very strong inclination towards fair play; I think you're underestimating yourself.”

Sid didn't think so, but he didn't disagree out loud. Instead, he asked, “What happened when you went back to school?”

Andrew made a face. “God, it was all fucked up. Cliff ignored me. I ignored him. My friends kept badgering me for details until I lost my temper. Not physically, thank Christ, but believe me, verbally was bad enough; they weren't exactly used to me acting like that. But I guess I was scary enough that they all shut up about it. Mostly. Until the next day. When the big topic of conversation was that Cliff had got himself a girlfriend. I cut class, went home, and chopped wood for an hour and a half; I'll let you imagine what I was thinking every time I swung the ax. And then I hit the vodka all by myself. A girlfriend!” he snorted.

This time, Sid picked up Andrew's glass for him.

“Thank you. In retrospect, my dear goose, I should have demanded that Mr. Cooke transfer Cliff to a different school. Because seeing him every single fucking day did terrible things to me. I had so much rage in me, that it was difficult to control. And I was also, to use a polite term, self-medicating at an alarming rate. Until one day after school, about a week or so later, I sat down at the piano to do my vocal exercises, and I realized that I was already so drunk that I couldn't finger the keys properly. Which was a wake-up call. Because, notwithstanding the object of my previous affections, singing was the most important thing in my life. And I was _not_ going to let that creature ruin it for me. Which is, you will no doubt realize, a completely defensive way of shifting responsibility for my own actions onto Cliff. But whatever: it worked. I stopped drinking entirely when I was alone, sharply curtailed the amount I drank when I was with my friends, upped the intensity of my vocal training to nearly super-human levels, and, at the advice of _Babushka_ Svetlana, started taking martial arts classes. Because, she said, I needed to channel my anger in useful ways, and Mom and Dad didn't have enough trees to support my ax habit for more than a month. I also, much to the relief of Mom and Dad, asked if I could go to a therapist.

“And eventually, things . . . got better. But I was never the same person again. Which, of course, makes perfect sense: everything we do in our lives changes us. But I . . . became wary. Of people, to a certain extent, but also of feelings. To an even greater extent. I became very guarded in my private life, and that increased exponentially when I began to have a public life as well. I let no one get close to me. Eventually, I started having sex again, but only with strangers, and only when I traveled. And never more than once—well, with one exception. Sort of. But that's another story.

“To put it another way: I didn't _want_ anyone to get close to me. Because if I let somebody get close, then I was exposing myself. Putting myself in danger. The danger of being betrayed. Again.”

He looked directly at Sid. “I know you noticed how . . . strongly I reacted when you told me in Halifax how you felt betrayed by me. You now know why. And despite the fact that _I_ know, thanks to all of the therapy I've had, that I can't control how you feel, I nonetheless felt—feel—sickened, that my actions made you feel that way. Even for a minute or two.”

Sid opened his mouth to protest, but Andrew held up his hand to forestall him, and kept talking.

“Anyway. That was my life. I had my family, and I had my career. And every so often, I'd get my ashes hauled. Efficiently. And that was enough for me, Sidney, it truly was. Was. Until I met you. And then . . . everything started to change. From the moment we began talking in that restaurant. You had such a look on your face!” He laughed—and Sid was happy that he was sounding more like himself again. “Don't be mad at me, but afterwards, when I was endlessly replaying our meeting over and over in my head, I gave that look a name: 'Sidney's Expression of Personal Pain and Emotional Disquietude. Level Two.'”

“Level Two?” Sid affected outrage. “I'm sure it was Level One.”

“Certainly not. In my system, the higher the number, the more pain you display; naturally, I've refined it since our first meeting. It goes something like this: Level One is what you look like when you have to talk to anybody; Level Two is what you look like when you have to talk to somebody you don't know; you hold your left eyelid a millimeter lower than in Level One. You use Level Five when you have to talk to reporters, and to give you an idea of scale, when I asked you the day we met if you'd ever won the Super Bowl, I swear you hit Level Ten. At least.”

“Fuck, Sasha,” Sid said, when he could form words again, “you're crazier than I am!”

“That, _mon oie_ , is a matter of opinion. And I take exception to your use of the word 'crazy,' as you well know. Well, as it applies to you, at any rate.

“However: we have now arrived—finally!—at the part of the conversation where I actually answer your question. Remember? My supposition about why things might be different between the two of us?”

“I do remember. Now that you've reminded me.”

“Well, I apologize for going on for so long. But I've wanted you to know for a while, and I did want you to have the whole story. God is in the details, after all.

“To continue. The answer to your question is rather simple. I thought I loved Cliff. Deeply. And perhaps I did; I'm fairly certain I would not have been so hurt by his actions if my emotions hadn't been, at the very least, thoroughly engaged. But Sidney,” and he took Sid's hands in his own, “what I felt for Cliff is the tiniest drop in the ocean compared to what I feel for you. And, not that I needed one, I now have a new reason to hate what Cliff did to me. Because even though I've tried to _show_ you, in any number of ways, it is nonetheless true that the scars his actions left on me have made it so, so difficult—impossible, in fact, until this very moment—for me to _tell_ you how very, very much I love you.

“Because that is the why, Sidney: with love—especially given the enormity of the love I feel for you—all things are truly possible.”

**********

Sid went quietly—and thoroughly—to pieces. He didn't care that he pulled Andrew to him so hard his collarbone jangled. He didn't care that he was clutching Andrew so tightly his arm ached. He actually wasn't even aware of inconsequential things like pain; all that mattered was that he had Andrew—in his life and in his arms—and the only thing he was conscious of was a feeling of utter and complete joy.

He did care, however, when mucus started dripping onto his upper lip.

“Ack!” he said thickly, pulling back a little; “I don't suppose. . . ?”

Andrew rolled his eyes. “I finally manage to tell him I love him,” he announced to the ceiling, “and the first thing he does is insult me.” He reached into his shorts pocket and pulled out a handkerchief. “For the record, Sidney,” he said, in the . . . _fondest_ of tones, “I brought this in case _I_ needed it. I do not, however, mind sharing.”

“Well, good.” Sid blew his nose. Vigorously. “For the record, Andrew,” he said when he was done, “I _do_ mind sharing. You're mine. You said you love me, and there are no take-backs. So there. And also for the record: I love you too. So fucking much, I can't even tell you.” Sid shook his head; his heart was so full, and there was so much he wanted to say. “But I can tell you this: there are two things about myself that I know with utter certainty. I'm a Pen for life . . . and I'm yours forever.”

Andrew's face grew . . . luminous. “Oh, Sidney.” He pulled Sid into his chest and held on; Sid could feel the tremors. Eventually, Andrew drew away, and snatched the handkerchief back. “Gross,” he remarked, applying it to his face; “I should have brought two.”

“Probably.” They smiled at each other, and Sid felt so light with happiness, he wouldn't have been surprised if he started floating away; he tightened his grip on Andrew so that wouldn't happen.

“Still feel like getting shit-faced?” he asked.

“Not at all. I do want another drink, though. Jesus Christ: talking is so hard sometimes.”

“Tell me about it,” Sid said, somewhat dryly. “I spent three hours today telling some stranger all about me. And my . . . well, I don't want to spoil the moment, so I'll say eccentricities.”

“Good enough. I hope I didn't burden you too much with my . . . emotional baggage.”

“Do me a favor, Sasha, and shut the fuck up.”

Andrew laughed, and propelled them off the couch. “Let's have that drink, stare dreamily into each other's eyes, and then go to bed.”

“Sounds like a plan. Hey: even though you're not getting shit-faced, can we still have your grandmother's required breakfast tomorrow? I like omelets.”

“Of course.”

As he got more ice out, Andrew mused, “I suppose we should actually be having champagne. If this were a movie, we'd be required to.”

Sid made a face. “I don't really like champagne. Do you?”

“I do. Well, sometimes. It tends to give me gas.”

Sid couldn't resist. “Most things do.” He dodged an ice cube. Laughing, he bent down to pick it up. “Seriously: you have the worst digestive system. And I say that as somebody who's spent most of his life sharing rooms—and bathrooms—with other men. It's got to be all the brown rice you eat.”

“It's a good thing we're not having champagne,” Andrew remarked, “or I would do terrible things to you with the bottle. Which would be rather a waste, because Mom and Dad only have really good champagne.” He eyed Sidney slyly. “Do you know how you can tell good champagne from not-so-good?”

“I have no idea. The price?”

“Well, that too. In theory, anyway. But the better the champagne, the more it smells like sperm.”

Sid stared at him in horror. “That is . . . I don't even know what that is. What the fuck?”

“It's true! It has to be brut champagne, of course. One of these days, we'll have to trade hand jobs, and then open a bottle. You'll be amazed.”

“I bet I will be.” Sid shook his head, and accepted his drink. “You know what, Sasha?”

“What?”

“I think we kind of fail at being romantic.”

“Oh, I don't know about that. _I_ think we're both capable of truly romantic gestures. There's a piano in Pittsburgh that proves me right.”

Sid smiled. “Maybe you are. Not to mention a certain, uh, vocalise. What did you call it earlier?”

“ _Cavatina di Crosby_. _Cavatina_ is Italian for a particular type of song. Which that song really isn't—well, not the way I sang it, anyway—but I like the sound of it. Particularly when you add the Crosby.”

“I kind of like that part too.” He held up his glass and they clinked.

As he lowered his glass, Andrew confessed, “You know, I said I wasn't terribly drunk, but God, I'm feeling kind of loopy. I think I'm on the same emotional roller coaster you were riding earlier.”

“Well, I can relate. Obviously.” He leaned into Andrew. “Isn't it nice that we're riding it together?”

“It is. Remember, Sidney: you said you loved me too. There are no take-backs.”

“Nope. And even if there were, I wouldn't want one.”

“Neither would I, _mon oie_. Neither would I.”

**********

After they'd stumbled upstairs and gotten ready for bed—Sid had even considered skipping a few of his routines, but ultimately decided that it wasn't worth the risk—they lay together in the dark and cuddled.

“Kind of an eventful day,” he sighed, resting his head on Andrew's chest.

Andrew snorted softly. “Now there's an understatement. I feel . . . drained. And you: you must be reeling.” He hesitated, and then said, “I'm sorry if I contributed to . . . oh, I don't know, an overload for you today. I know you said you wanted to hear my tale, but it probably wasn't the best timing.”

Sid stealth-walked his fingers up the bed and then poked Andrew in the side.

“Ouch!”

“To quote you—well, sort of: 'Button it, Copley.' Hey: have you ever noticed? Your real last name and mine: they both have the same number of letters in them, and they both begin and end with the same ones.”

“Is that a good thing?”

“Sure. If I were a superstitious person, I'd say it was an omen.”

“And since you're _not_ superstit— Oh, I _am_ sorry, Sidney; I can't actually finish that statement without laughing my ass off.”

Sid huffed. “Fine. Be that way. But seriously: that fact makes me happy. It makes my OCD happy too. I mean, I know it's a coincidence. And I didn't even know for months that Singleton wasn't your last name. But still: something Tolliver said today, before you came in the room: a lot of people with OCD constantly seek out connections and . . . affinities. That's the word she used. There's a kind of order to them that is incredibly appealing. Which I have to agree with. And which I kind of knew already, but only from the other side. I've built entire groups of routines around things like that.”

“Have you really?”

“I have. If you promise not to chirp me too much, I'll show you my lists when I finish my homework.”

“I do promise. Some of the things you talked about with the doctor today sounded fascinating. In an abstract kind of way, of course, since they also sounded incredibly painful. And debilitating.”

“Well, they are,” Sid admitted. “But . . . there's actually something satisfying about them, too. Noticing connections can be kind of fun. Like: not only are our last names very similar, but our birthdays are mirror images: I'm the seventh day of the eighth month, and you're the eighth day of the seventh. I love that.”

“It is kind of nice, isn't it? I'm a big fan of symmetry. Both Mom and Dad tell me that's why I'm terrible at decorating; I always just line everything up.” Andrew yawned. At length. “God, sorry. All right, I'm officially fading. But I have a question. Okay?”

“Sure.”

“How much of my story had you figured out already?”

“Only a little,” Sid said, after thinking about it. “I mean, I kind of knew that it had to have something to do with him; you pretty much told me that he's the reason you didn't date. But for sure I didn't know any of the details. And nothing that I imagined came even close to what you said tonight.” He paused. “When you were telling me the part when his dad said he wasn't doing too good, I kind of figured that he maybe killed himself.”

“Hardly,” Andrew said; Sid could _hear_ him rolling his eyes. “Cliff is far too much of a coward.”

“I guess he is. So I get a question now. And . . . okay. I'm going to ask you to give me a break here. 'Cause I know I shouldn't ask this. But I really, really want to, so I am. Okay?”

“Of course.” Andrew had that . . . _fond_ tone in his voice again; fuck, Sid loved hearing that.

“Thanks. So here it is: you said that what you felt for him was nowhere near what you feel for me. Can you maybe tell me, or . . . no, give me an example? Of the difference, I mean. 'Cause I'll be honest with you, Andrew: after everything that's happened lately—I mean, you coming to Halifax and finding out about me, and seeing me so bad off—I . . . could use a little reassurance, I guess.”

“Well, I'd be happy to. Once I point out that the fact that I decided tonight—after Halifax—to tell you explicitly how much I love you should be a clue that finding out you have OCD hasn't changed my feelings for you one little bit. Okay?”

“Well, good. But I still kind of want to know.”

“All right. But please, Sidney: don't think of yourself and Cliff in some kind of competition. Because I'm telling you right now: there is no comparison. None. And here's my proof. The example you wanted?” He leaned a little closer and spoke directly into Sid's ear.

“Even though I genuinely thought I loved Cliff, I never for a moment—not for one single second—ever entertained the notion of allowing him to call me Sasha.”

Sid sighed happily.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Andrew details the story of his relationship with his prep school boyfriend. Both are fifteen, below the age of consent in Massachusetts; since both are fifteen, naturally they ignore that fact. Additionally, said prep school boyfriend falsely accuses Andrew of forcing him into sex (although he recants the accusation relatively quickly). Moreover, the story details a fair amount of underage drinking, mostly following the implosion of the relationship.
> 
> In the course of telling the story, Andrew (uncharacteristically) uses a misogynistic slur. However, he (characteristically) asks Sid to excuse his language. I hope readers will forgive him.
> 
> This is the longest chapter in the entire book, but it seemed necessary to keep the two halves of it together. And it does contain the moment that I am sure a lot of you have been waiting for, so I hope you will forgive me!


	27. Chapter 27

Sid was sitting in the garden having a well-deserved beer when Andrew and his parents got home. He heard them before he saw them; they seemed to be arguing about something.

“We'll let Sidney decide,” Daniel said, as he walked around the pergola. “Sidney, my boy: we're ordering dinner in tonight. Italian or Thai?”

Sid considered. From the look on Andrew's face, he knew what he was supposed to say. But Andrew wasn't singing that week, so. . . .

“Italian. But only if you let me pay.”

“Of course we won't,” Elisabeth said decisively. “Italian it is. Daniel, do we have a copy of the menu?”

“There should be one in the kitchen,” Daniel said, collapsing into his seat. “But we can look it up on Sidney's laptop.”

Sid gave said laptop a look of utter loathing. “Uh, why don't I go get the menu? I don't want to touch that thing again for a while.”

Andrew's grumpy look disappeared. “Homework not going well?”

“Part one was okay: that was just making the lists. But then I was supposed to rate things and order them, and it got too hard. Too many decisions about rating them, and I have no idea how to order them. I thought you said using a spreadsheet made it easy to do,” he accused.

“Well, you have to know how to do it,” Andrew said, not troubling to hide his grin.

“Have you never used a spreadsheet before?” Daniel sounded scandalized.

“No. And after today, I don't think I'll ever do it again. I found the button that sorted things, but it never did what I wanted it to. I'm just glad I found the 'Undo' button.”

“Want some help?”

“Please. But after dinner.”

“Well, go get the menu—it's in the drawer under the microwave. It should be the one with the heart attack warning on the front of it.” Daniel leaned over and patted him on the head; Andrew smothered a grin. “And . . . I could take a look now, if you don't mind.”

“Feel free. Uh, can I get anybody a beer or something?”

When he got back from the kitchen, he found Daniel rubbing Elisabeth's feet and Andrew engrossed in the laptop. Sid put the tray of drinks on the table and sat down again with the menu.

“What's good at this place?”

“Veal with eggplant.”

Elisabeth disagreed. “Chicken with eggplant.”

Without looking up, Andrew said, “Eggplant parm.”

Sid looked from one to the other. “I'm seeing eggplant in my future, I guess. I don't know if I like eggplant, though. Isn't it kind of bitter?”

“Not from this place,” Daniel assured him.

Sid looked over the menu, and bit his lip. There were too many choices. As if alerted by his silence, Andrew looked up.

“I do think you'd like any of the eggplant dishes, but I know you'd like the chicken parm. Or the veal parm, if you eat veal. The sauce is zesty, but not really spicy. Plus, they come with onion rings, which I know you like.”

“Sold.” Sid put down the menu in relief. “I'll get the chicken, and we can share, if you want; I wouldn't mind a taste of the eggplant.”

Daniel pulled out his phone, but Andrew leaned over and snatched it out of his hand.

“ _I_ will place the order. If we have to have food this heavy in heat like this, then we will certainly need salad and vegetables that are not covered in cheese to balance things out. And before you start arguing for their antipasto platter, Dad, remember that we all had bacon this morning. You do _not_ need any additional cured meats.” He started tapping numbers.

Daniel stuck out his tongue. “You are such a tyrant, Sasha. Be warned, Sidney.

Sid laughed a little. “I don't know, Daniel; I kind of like it when he takes care of me.” He smiled at Andrew. Who was beaming. “If he could only kick his addiction to brown rice, he'd be perfect.”

Both Daniel and Elisabeth started laughing; Andrew looked like he had a few choice words to say, but evidently, the restaurant answered its phone, so he had to talk to them instead. Which he did at great length. In Italian.

Elisabeth turned to Sid. “I meant to ask earlier: why did we have bacon this morning?”

“Apparently, it's a requirement of your mother's,” Sid told her.

She looked surprised—and then vastly amused. “Did you two over-indulge last night?”

“Uh, not exactly. But . . . the possibility was there.” He glanced over at Andrew—who was still talking animatedly. Probably about vegetables. Sid gave a mental shrug; he figured there was no reason to keep it a secret.

“Yesterday was hard. For both of us. Me . . . well, you know about that. And then, last night, Andrew told me about . . . Cliff.” Just saying his name left a bad taste in Sid's mouth.

Elisabeth exchanged glances with Daniel; she looked . . . pleased. Daniel, on the other hand, looked faintly exasperated.

“Took him long enough.”

Elisabeth poked her husband. “Be nice, darling. Or else I'll tell Sidney how long it took you to ask me out on a date.”

Daniel gave his wife a droll look. “Did I ever actually manage to do that? I seem to recall you ended up doing it for me.”

“Precisely.”

Sid laughed. “I knew there was another reason why I like you so much,” he said to Daniel. “Although . . . I guess technically, I asked Andrew out on a date first. I mean, he sent me two tickets to his concert, but I asked him out to dinner afterwards. That's more like a date, right? Since I kind of had a date for the concert. Well, I brought Nathalie. So that definitely wasn't a date.”

Elisabeth leaned over and gave him a pat. “I'd say you're the clear winner, Sidney.”

Sid grinned, pleased as punch.

“You know, I saw her the other day,” Elisabeth went on; from the tone of her voice, there was only one woman she could possibly be referring to. “It looked like she was going to say something to me. So I smiled at her.”

“What happened?”

“She ran away,” Elisabeth said complacently.

Daniel roared, and Sid honked so hard he almost fell off his chair.

“I cannot imagine why Roger has stayed married to her.”

“Rog is an honorable man, Lis.”

“There's honorable, Daniel. And then there's masochistic.” She sighed. “Well, it's none of my business. Especially since Roger doesn't bring her to any of the company parties. I was dreading that first one, especially after I discovered that Mama had been rereading Agatha Christie to research poisons and the best methods to administer them. I had to frisk her purse. Repeatedly.”

Sid fell back against his chair again, helpless with laughter.

“I picked the best family in the world to marry into, didn't I?” Daniel said, proud as anything.

“What are you three carrying on about?” Andrew asked, handing his father back his phone; “I could barely hear.”

“Family history, darling. To be specific, your grandmother.”

“Ah. Well, that explains it. Dinner will be ready in half an hour. And I'm going to go get it, because otherwise it won't be here for an hour and a half.”

“Do you want me to go with you?” Sid felt like he should offer, but evidently his reluctance was obvious, because Andrew shook his head.

“Nah. You stay here. You must be spent, Sidney; I barely skimmed your lists, and _I'm_ exhausted. How the _hell_ do you keep track of all of those rituals? They're so detailed! It's positively mind-boggling; I'm sure I couldn't do it.”

Sid rolled his eyes. “So says the guy who routinely sings about a thousand notes a minute. It takes practice, Andrew. Practice anything long enough and you get good at it.”

“Well, I know, but this seems different to me.”

“Trust me, it's not. Think of it this way. My _cavatina_?” He didn't think he mangled the word too much. “The first time you sang it through it was real simple. You kept adding onto it. And by the end? You get the picture.” He gestured towards the laptop. “My problem . . . well, _one_ of my problems, I guess I should say—or maybe, my problem right now–is I don't know how to organize this. 'Cause some of it has an order, but a lot of it . . . depends on circumstances.”

Andrew's parents had been listening interestedly, and Daniel said, “So, essentially, you're building a database. Or, actually, a programming library. Of routines and subroutines. And now you have to outline the scenarios in which they function. And how to combine them. And how some require others to work, and how—and when—they activate others. I can show you how to do that, Sidney, if you don't mind sharing your data with me.”

“No, I don't mind. I don't think so, anyway.” Sid checked in with his head. “No, I don't mind. You guys know already, so . . . . But I don't want to put you to any trouble.”

“It's no trouble at all, my boy. Truly.”

“You should take Dad up on it, Sidney; he's a much better teacher than I am.”

“He is,” Elisabeth agreed. “It's rather odd, actually; they're both so detail-oriented. I've seen them both try to explain things: Sasha shows you once, and expects you to remember, while Daniel leads you through it so that you can't help but remember. I think it has something to do with the fact that Sasha only cares about the details that he thinks are important, and Daniel always thinks every detail is important.”

“That sounds about right,” Andrew laughed.

“You're sure you don't mind, Daniel?”

“Quite sure. It's not difficult at all; it's really just defining data according to general, and then increasingly specific criteria. We can start while Sasha goes to get our dinner, and pick up afterwards. He has homework tonight too.”

“You do?”

Andrew made a face. “Unfortunately, yes. I have to review my taxes; they're due in the middle of the month.”

“Don't you have someone who does them for you?”

“Well, yes. Of course. But I still have to review them. And if you don't review yours, I suggest you don't say that out loud. At least, in front of Mom. You'll get yelled at.”

“You certainly will. As Papa used to say, 'Trust no one with your money. Especially yourself.'”

**********

Sid worked on his lists for as long as he could stand after dinner. He was getting the hang of Daniel's instructions, so that part was going pretty well; it was just all the decisions that were driving him crazy. Well, crazier. He'd never tried to analyze his routines like this, and assigning a “strength” to them was harder than he'd thought it would be. Why would having to put his right sock on before his left sock after a game be stronger than doing exactly the same thing after morning skate? Why did the urge to do some routines in Pittsburgh seem stronger than the urge to do the same routines when he was in Nova Scotia? And why were some of his before-bed routines markedly different, depending on which house he was in? Equally strong, he decided, just different. And those were just the . . . everyday ones.

His head hurt, and his fingers were itching for a bottle of bleach and a sponge, so he thought he'd take a break. At least until he finished digesting dinner (which had been delicious, and Andrew had even brought home some kind of Italian cheesecake for dessert—some of which was still in the kitchen). He saved his spreadsheet, and thought about what would be a good distraction. It didn't take long for him to decide that watching Andrew mutter curses (pretty obviously) in his usual assortment of languages was just the thing. Especially since his hair already looked like he'd stuck his finger in a light socket.

Sid was making bets with himself about how much longer it would take for the pencil behind Andrew's right ear to fall down (he'd already lost to himself twice; had he put fucking glue back there?) when Andrew sat up straight (Finally! And Andrew didn't even seem to notice, which had to be worth a bonus point), pulled a very thick binder towards him (every time he looked in the binder he switched to English, which was a very useful gauge), and after flipping a few pages, said, “Why that little fucktard!”

“What is it, darling?” Elisabeth and Daniel had been reading, until Daniel fell asleep with his head in her lap.

“That new associate Uncle John has working for him. He's taken a bunch of my personal expenses and reclassified them as business expenses. After I specifically told him not to. The exact same expenses, too. Did he think I wouldn't notice?”

“What expenses are they?”

“From when I was in Pittsburgh last November. He queried me, because the hotel bill was so low.”

“Sasha, just because you stayed with Sidney doesn't mean you didn't have expenses.”

“Well, of course I did! And I recorded every single thing that could legitimately be considered business _as_ business. I even let him talk me into the piano rental costs, even though that was strictly for my own convenience. But seriously, Mom: drinks with the Pens? Food for me and Sidney? For that matter, equipment for Sidney's kitchen? There's no way a salad spinner should be considered a business expense.” He looked around. “Where's my phone? I'm going to call Uncle John.” He stood up and stalked out.

Elisabeth rolled her eyes. “He's so fastidious about his taxes,” she said to Sid. “He gets that from my father. And his father, for that matter.” She gave Daniel's hair a little pat. “My mother was . . . more pragmatic.”

“Does he seriously have a line item for my salad spinner?” Sid asked curiously.

“I wouldn't be surprised. And I will grant him that point.” She smirked at Sidney. “From what I hear, he should pay entertainment tax on that particular item, not income tax.”

Sid tried not to laugh, but it was hard. “God! Does he tell you two everything?”

“Only the fun parts. We hear _all_ about those.” Her smile was . . . wicked.

Sid blushed a little. To distract himself from wondering (“Does he really talk about _that_?”), he stood up and headed for the kitchen. As he passed the table, he looked down at the binder. Andrew couldn't possibly. . . .

“Okay: it's not a separate line item. It just says 'SPC kitchen' . . . holy shit! He spent how much?” He stared gape-mouthed at the binder.

“Sidney, my dear, I assure you he can afford it.”

“Well, I know, but. . . .”

“No buts, Sidney. Look at the first page of the tax return.” She gestured.

So Sid did. And after squinting at it for a minute, he said, “There can't possibly be that many numbers in the world.”

Elisabeth laughed at him. “Sasha is one of the most highly paid opera singers in the world, but his income from that is only a fraction of what he's worth. For that matter, what he earns from singing is an even smaller fraction of what you earn from hockey, or so Daniel tells me.” She laughed again. “At least it's nice to know that neither of you is a gold-digger. And seriously, my dear: that gorgeous piano you gave Sasha for his birthday? You have absolutely no right to call anybody else in the world extravagant. Possibly ever again.”

Flushing again, but this time from pleasure as well as embarrassment, Sid mumbled, “Well, thanks. I guess.” He looked towards the door, and then added, “I wanted it to be special. Because . . . he is. And if I'm being honest: it wasn't only for him. It was for me, too. I . . . just love hearing him sing.”

The smile that Elisabeth bestowed on him was more than fond. “That's because you listen with your heart as well as your ears. You're a very sweet man, Sidney; I can't tell you how happy I am that you and Sasha found each other.”

“Probably not as happy as I am,” Sid said seriously.

“Perhaps not.” She laughed again and then she confided, “I will admit to having had some reservations when Sasha first mentioned you; I thought the worlds you two lived in were too different. But then I met you and watched you two together, and . . .” she waved a hand, “poof! They vanished.”

Sid was sure his face was scarlet. “Uh, thanks. I'm . . . glad.”

“As am I. As we both are, actually.” She patted Daniel's hair again. “You make Sasha very happy. To speak further, you both seem to make each other so very happy. And the care you each take with the other? It's a joy to watch. Mama predicted Sasha would meet someone like you someday; 'they will be _rodstvennyye dushi_ ,' she said. That means—oh, I suppose you could translate it as 'friends and lovers both.'”

“If you don't stop,” Sid said thickly, “I'm going to cry.”

She held out her other arm. “Cry away, my dear. I meant every word.”

Sid perched on the side of the couch and accepted her hug. He didn't cry . . . well, not really . . . but he hugged her back fervently.

“Sidney? Are you all right?”

Elisabeth patted Sid's back. “He's fine, Sasha. Truly. We were just having a moment; I was telling Sidney how thoroughly I approve of him, and naturally, he was stunned by the weight of my regard.”

Sid lifted his head up and grinned at her.

Andrew snorted. “As he should be. You don't thoroughly approve of anybody—your only son included.”

“Well, then,” Sid said, standing up and winking. “I guess I win.”

“And here's your prize.” An especially enthusiastic raspberry.

“No, here's my prize.” And Sid caught Andrew up in a hug. “Only the best for me.”

From his wife's lap, Daniel asked muzzily, “Why are you two standing there being schmoopy when you could be busy making us grandparents?”

Both Andrew and Sid groaned, and Elisabeth cuffed her husband lightly.

“I believe you're overdue for a review of human biology, darling.”

He looked up at her and winked. “Why do you think I took a nap?”

**********

July was maybe the most unsettled month Sid had ever had. Unsettled and unsettling. A kind of whirlwind—or, maybe more like another extended ride on the emotional roller coaster. There were highs (Andrew's birthday, which the four of them celebrated wearing paper hats and by playing board games; if Sid had ever thought he was fiercely competitive, playing Parcheesi with the Copleys proved that he was a piker) and lows (incredibly difficult sessions with Dr. Tolliver, which only promised to get harder when the season began again). After his second meeting with her, when she'd dared him to leave his ticket stub from Andrew's Pittsburgh concert with her, he'd made Andrew drive him to the store where he'd bought half a dozen bottles of bleach, and two dozen sponges. After that day, he'd limited himself to a single bottle per twenty-four hour period, but he wasn't sure he could keep that up indefinitely. Especially since Tolliver continually upped the intensity, if only by a few degrees each time. He was supposed to start flushing a little bleach away every time he opened a new bottle; he hadn't quite managed to do it yet. Still, every time he did make an advance, no matter how small, he tried to reward himself, and Andrew proved invaluable—and inventive—at that.

They divided their time between Andrew's apartment and his parents' house. Between physical therapy and OCD therapy, he was pretty busy. Sid had also taken Andrew's advice and called Brad, so he was at least able to get on the ice a few times a week; he had almost whimpered as he took his initial strides the first time they skated together—it had been entirely too long. Andrew had even joined them once, at the end of their practice (albeit reluctantly; Sid had had to guilt him into it. And planned on doing so again; Andrew's skating was definitely much better, but of course he needed the practice). Brad had greeted him with pleasure and had asked him when the concert was going to be broadcast, which Andrew claimed not to know. Sid had made a mental note to try and find out himself . . . well, to ask Simon to find out. Or Daniel. Or even Tommy. With whom he found himself talking a couple of times a week.

Andrew had been an amused witness to their first exchange. Sid had stalked out of Tolliver's office, muttering imprecations about how she was going to ruin his season for him before it even started. As soon as they got in the car, Sid pulled out his phone and called Tommy.

“Hey, Sid. This is a surprise. What's up?”

“You're not moving out.”

“I'm not?”

“No.”

Pause. “Okay.”

“Good.” Sid stabbed his phone, and practically threw it on the dashboard.

“He's going to call you back, you know,” Andrew said through his laughter.

“No, he's not.”

“He _is_.”

“No, he's not. He's going to call you.”

Just then, the car announced, “Call from Tommy Standish.”

Andrew stared at Sid in disbelief. Sid looked back at him smugly.

“I hate Bluetooth,” Andrew muttered.

**********

Towards the end of their third week of regular sessions, Tolliver said, “We should discuss scheduling, Sid. And perhaps assess where we are.”

Sid stifled a groan, but it was a close thing. “Okay. Should I go get Andrew?”

After studying him for a second, Tolliver nodded. “That's probably a good idea.”

When they were settled, she said, “As you know, Sid, I'm going to be away on vacation for the last three weeks of August.”

“I remember.”

“And you'll be going to Pittsburgh before I get back—unless things have changed?”

Sid shook his head. “No. My PT is almost over. One more week. I may even go back a little early, and get some training time in. Since Andrew's leaving for Italy in a couple of days.” He wasn't happy about that, and he didn't know how successful he was at keeping it out of his voice.

“I see.” She seemed to be turning something over in her mind. “Well, given our respective schedules, our sessions will be held remotely very soon. I confess, I wish the timing were different. Picking up your professional life again is going to be very, very difficult, Sid. I know we've discussed this, but I can't emphasize it enough. You're going to have to try and curtail your obsessive behaviors in an atmosphere that seems actively to encourage them. Not to mention the fact that a number of your teammates are implicated in them. Have implicated themselves in them, as well. I know you don't like that word, but it's true.”

“I know,” Sid sighed. “But what can I do?”

“Try your best. You've made real progress, Sid. I know you don't think so, but you have.”

“Actually,” Sid said, surprising himself a little, “I do think so. What seems . . . daunting? . . . is how much more I have to do.”

“Step by step, Sid. Break it down. . . .”

“Into manageable pieces,” Sid said. “I know.”

“And don't get discouraged,” Andrew threw in. “Or beat yourself up.”

Sid made a face at him.

“Well, given that Andrew is going away as well, I think . . . we should perform an experiment.”

“Ugh.” Sid hated those. They were always hard.

She laughed. “It's entirely possible this one will be more difficult for me than it is for you. I'd like to try and have a remote session before my vacation. I told you: I've never done it before, and I'd like to know what to expect. I also think it would be better to test it now, rather than wait until after we've not met for three weeks; it could be much more problematic if something goes wrong then.”

“I guess that makes sense. But . . . you have the laptop that Daniel fixed up, right?” She nodded. “Well, I do too. So, I bet there won't be any problems.” He grinned at Andrew. “Your dad's good.”

“He is,” Andrew agreed with a smile.

“Still,” Sid went on, “it's probably not a bad idea to test it. Although: Andrew, does it matter if I'm in Canada? The Skype thing, I mean.”

“Not at all. But . . . are you going back to Canada so soon? I thought you'd stay with Mom and Dad for a while.”

“I have to go back sometime. And I want to spend some time with Taylor. And . . . well, my mom and dad want me home for my birthday. Which is August 7th,” he told Tolliver.

She tapped the end of her pen on her pad. “Sid, I'm not going to lie to you. You're going to have to work very hard at not regressing completely. There are too many changes happening at once: Andrew's leaving, my vacation, the upcoming season. Plus: your house in Canada is the site of your most stringent rituals. I do not expect you to be able to resist them all, but neither do I want you to succumb to all of them. So: our next session will be here; the one after that will be remote. And for next time: I want you to make another list: only of the obsessions and compulsions that are unique to that house. And we'll review it, and choose which we'll need to be extra-vigilant about.

“And I also have an assignment for you, Andrew.”

Andrew looked a little surprised, but said, “Of course.”

“Sid has spoken often of how much he enjoys listening to you sing. In fact, I would not be at all surprised if it isn't at the very top of the list of 'couples things' that he has thus far managed not to admit out loud that he's compiled.” Sid flushed, and both Tolliver and Andrew laughed. “He's also mentioned the music player you gave him, and how he uses it to relax. Which is an excellent strategy, by the way, and one which both I and a number of my colleagues recommend often. So, if you're agreeable, I would like you to make a new play list—that's the correct term, I believe—or perhaps even two. One should be of Sid's favorite songs, things he can listen to when he is highly tempted or discouraged. The other should be of things Sid hasn't heard before. These will serve as his rewards. And next time, Sid, we'll discuss what will merit your listening to one.” She looked from one to another. “Is this a viable plan?”

Sid nodded. Enthusiastically. And Andrew looked . . . pleased. V _ery_ pleased. “I'd be happy to.”

“Good. Until next time then, Sid.”

**********

Sid was practically bouncing as they went to the car.

“See, this is why I think it's worth sticking with her,” he said. “She gets me.”

“She does. And she also knows when to push and when not to. I have to admire her pragmatism.”

“Uh, I haven't exactly noticed her not pushing, Andrew,” Sid said, somewhat grumpily.

“Well, maybe I didn't say it right. She knows when—or how, maybe—to gauge your resistance, and to find a way past it. But if it looks insuperable, she goes in a different direction. For a time.”

“I guess.” Sid thought about that for a few seconds. And then gave up. “Whatever. It's working. Slowly. And I know, I know: 'learn to stand on your skates.'”

“It's good advice.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “I'll need to spend some time at my place in order to do my homework. When's your next PT?”

“Tomorrow. And then I'm meeting Brad.” He eyed Andrew sideways. “I was hoping you'd join us again. It'll be the last chance before you go.”

“Well, we'll have to see. Homework first, as Dad always used to say.”

“But you promise you'll try?”

“I do promise.” He pulled out of the lot. “How about this: let's take the first train into town tomorrow. It's very early; I think we catch it just before 6 AM. If it's on time, anyway. We should be at my place by 7. That'll give me more than three hours before your appointment. The favorites lists is a snap; it's the other one that will take some time. I should be able to put something together in three hours, but if I want to record anything new, I'll have to do that when you're not around. We wouldn't want to spoil the surprise, after all.”

“Okay.” Sid hesitated. “You know, I can go to PT by myself; I know the way. I'd rather do that, than miss the chance of skating with you.”

“Duly noted. So tell me: what do you want for your birthday?”

“You mean, you haven't bought my present yet?” Sid affected outrage.

“Nope,” Andrew confessed cheerfully. “I had any number of ideas, but most of them aren't possible. This year, at any rate. Rest assured, however, I will keep them in mind for the future.”

Sid really, really liked the sound of that.

“And for the record? I am making no attempt to compete with what you gave me. I concede, Sidney. You have won at birthday presents—for the rest of time.”

In his best monotone, Sid said, “Of course I have.” And then spoiled the effect a little by snickering.

“Be serious, my little Canadian hockey-bot. Is there anything you'd like?”

“Not really. Well, nothing I can have. I'd love to spend the day with you, but that's not possible. I've come to the conclusion, Sasha, that I'm a very greedy person. I never thought that before. But I am. I'm so spoiled, our spending all of this time together; you'd think I'd be satisfied, but I'm anything but. The more time I have with you, the more time I want. Of course, it'd be better if we didn't have to spend so much time dealing with my appointments, but even so. Which reminds me: how many things have you canceled this month?

“I haven't canceled any engagements whatsoever, which is the most important thing; I wouldn't, unless it were an emergency. Fortunately, July is almost always a quiet month. I even had some extra time I didn't expect, since my label changed a recording session. I have canceled a couple of meetings and an interview, but they were easy enough to reschedule. Oh, and I rescheduled my annual physical and my eye exam, but believe me, that's no hardship; I'll do them when I get back. I admit, I've fallen behind a bit in learning new material, but that's quickly remedied. I'll be frank: even though I know the role I'm doing at Pesaro like I know my own name, if I hadn't had you to distract me, I would have obsessed, and I use that word advisedly, over every single note. So I'm heading over there relaxed, which is entirely a new thing for me.” He grinned. “Change is sometimes a good thing, I suppose. Of course, I may start obsessing on the plane; if so, I'll call you for helpful hints.”

Sid snorted. “Well, I'd be happy to share. Not that you don't know everything I do.”

“Maybe not everything. Sidney, do you really have a list of 'couples things' or was Tolliver just making that up to see your reaction?”

Sid pretended to think. “Let's see. I think the correct phrase is: plausible deniability.”

“You do have a list! Why? And what's on it?”

“'I admit nothing.'”

“Do I have to beg?”

“That might be fun. But seriously, Andrew: I don't want to say much, because I don't want to put you in an uncomfortable place if she ever asks you. So let me just say this: if I did make such a list, it maybe would be to see how many of the routines that involve you are just couples things, and how many are my own stuff. And believe me: I will deny that any such list exists, unless I have absolutely no choice in the matter, because I also have absolutely no intention of giving up anything that involves the two of us, whatever she thinks. I have to be careful; I never imagined she'd think the ticket stub was anything but a couples thing. It almost fucking killed me to give that up.”

“Well, I will confess that that may be my fault. I shouldn't have said anything, but I was just so surprised.”

Sid waved that off. “Please. Like you haven't saved the stubs from every game you've seen me play.”

“Of course I have. But I'm not her patient.” Andrew was silent for a a few seconds, and then asked, “What about the things that are . . . what did you say, your own stuff?”

“I think I'll have to take those on a case-by-case basis. I will admit—to you, Andrew, and to no one else—that having been seeing her for almost a month has clued me in that it's maybe unfair to you for me to use you in some of my behaviors—even if you don't know that I'm doing it. Not a lot of them, but a couple. Hence, as you might say, the list. Which may or may not exist.”

“All right, Sidney; I won't ask any more questions. But I told you what Mom and Dad said; it's okay to rely on . . . what would it be? The thought of me, I suppose. You have my permission to take liberties with me while you deal with everything else. Don't try to do everything at once.”

“Thank you. I mean that. And I won't. And I mean that, too.” He laughed, somewhat sheepishly. “Okay, this is maybe going to be a little embarrassing. Have you ever seen the TV show _Bewitched_?”

“Of course I have. I love that show; I used to watch it with _Babushka_ Svetlana. I even have a couple of seasons of it on DVD.”

“I have every season of it.”

“You do? I didn't see it in your media room.”

“That's because I hide it. It doesn't exactly fit with the whole hockey player persona—if that's the right word.”

“It is—and that's utter bullshit.”

“I know, I know. Look, we can discuss my lack of personal growth in that area some other time. Anyway: _Bewitched_ is one of my favorite shows of all time.”

“Who's your favorite character?”

“Duh. Have you forgotten I'm gay, Andrew?”

“That _was_ stupid of me, wasn't it. Okay, who's your favorite character after Endora?”

“Relative or non-relative?”

“Relative. Definitely relative.”

“I guess . . . Uncle Arthur. You?”

“Aunt Clara. Hands down.” Andrew laughed. “I can't believe I'm about to admit this, but I have a secret doorknob collection.”

Sid started honking. “You do not!”

“I _do!_ I'll show it to you tomorrow; I keep it at my place, because God help me if Mom and Dad ever find it. Anyway: what does _Bewitched_ have to do with your OCD?”

“Well, it actually has more to do with why I wouldn't try to do too much at once. Because it doesn't do any good. Remember the pilot episode? The last scene? They're in their apartment, and the whole kitchen is stuffed with all these dishes and goblets and stuff. And Samantha knows she's promised to do things the mortal way, but she also knows Darren's waiting for her in the bedroom, so she just waves her hands, and boom! It's all put away. And she looks around, and then she just kind of shrugs and says, 'Maybe I can taper off.'” Sid gestured towards himself. “This is me, maybe tapering off.”

**********

Sid woke up on the morning of his birthday feeling a little disoriented. And grumpy. He'd been having a great dream involving himself and Andrew in the shower room at Consol. The water had been hot and steamy, just like Andrew's ass. He closed his eyes again, and imagined Andrew's voice, rough with arousal, telling him, “Fuck me hard, Sidney! Fuck me while my load drips out of your hole!” He palmed his cock a couple of times, and considered pursuing that train of thought to its natural conclusion . . . when he smelled something. Something good.

He smiled happily, got out of bed, and passing over his boxers in favor of his (more concealing) robe, padded downstairs to say hello to his mom. Or Taylor, but since there wasn't any smoke, it was probably his mom.

It wasn't.

“Good morning, Sidney!” Daniel said from the stove, where he was cooking bacon. “Happy birthday!”

“Daniel?” Sid was thrilled.

“In the flesh. Lis just went out to the . . . oh, here she is.”

“Happy birthday, my dear!” Elisabeth walked over and hugged him.

“Thank you!” He turned and hugged Daniel too, maneuvering around the spatula. “What are you two doing here?”

“Cooking you breakfast, of course. You don't think we'd let you celebrate your birthday alone, do you?”

“Are you surprised?” Elisabeth asked, putting a bag of what looked like party hats on the table.

“Completely.” Sid was sure he was grinning like an idiot. Then he had a thought.

“Did I forget to set the alarm?”

“No, you didn't forget.”

“Then how did you get in?”

“I realize you've just woken up, Sidney, but please: there's no reason at all to insult Daniel.”

“You have a very good system here, my boy,” Daniel said with a wink. “It took me a minute longer than I thought it would.”

Sid burst out laughing.

**********

Sid had a great day. Breakfast was delicious, and the best part was when Andrew called. Daniel put down a plate that held what must have been the world's largest blueberry muffin—with a birthday candle in it!—and Andrew sang the birthday song to him over the phone, while his parents did it in person. Elisabeth took a picture of him in his hat and sent it to her son; Sid bet he could have heard Andrew laughing even if there hadn't been a phone involved.

“Where the hell did they find Pens hats?” Andrew asked when he'd wound down. “You should send that picture to Jen; Twitter needs that picture, Sidney.”

“Maybe I will. Okay, I definitely will. Once we hang up. How's Italy?”

“It's still good. No major calamities since we spoke last. Everything's all set for the opening tonight; I think it'll go well.”

“I'm sure it will. I kind of wish I was there.”

“Well, I do too. To be precise: I wish we were together. But soon, _mon oie_.”

They talked a little longer, and then Andrew had to go. Sid kept his promise, and once Daniel had put it on his phone, sent the picture to Jen. Who sent an immediate reply comprised entirely of exclamation points. When his phone started buzzing wildly, he figured that Twitter had twitted. Or whatever it did.

He spent a couple of minutes reading his texts out loud to the Copleys; some of the chirps were actually pretty funny. He even got a text from Ovechkin. All in capital letters.

“He's loud even when you can't hear him,” Sid complained. But his comment lacked any bite whatsoever.

After breakfast, he and the Copleys went for a long walk in the woods, talking about everything and nothing. He told them how he was doing with the behaviors, now that he was back in Canada and Tolliver was on vacation (the answer, of course, was not great). They told him not to be discouraged, and when Elisabeth Copley fixed her eyes on you and told you not to do something, well, Sid kind of felt like standing at attention. Which might have been her intent, since she smirked when he confessed that to her.

Taylor met them at the rink late morning and actually squealed when she saw Daniel and Elisabeth; they greeted her with obvious affection, and Sid got the definite impression that they liked her for herself, and not just because she was his sister. Nate MacKinnon also showed up; pointing to Sid's head, he asked, “Where's the hat?” before wishing Sid happy birthday. Sid decided to take the day off, and after he did his basic maintenance, everyone spent a couple of hours generally messing around on the ice. They played keepaway, and he and Nate gave Daniel lessons in stick handling, while Taylor shouted encouragement from the net and Elisabeth took pictures.

Sid was very, very happy. Until it was time for them to leave.

“I can't thank you two enough for coming all this way just for a few hours. I wish you could stay longer,” he said honestly, trying as best as he could not to whine.

The Copleys exchanged a glance—how did married couples learn to have entire conversations non-verbally? Sid had enough trouble with the regular kind—but Daniel shook his head.

“That's very nice of you, my boy, but we should go. You have the party at your parents' house tonight, and our presence would be sure to make things awkward.”

“It's not your presence that would,” Sid said glumly. After Andrew had left for Italy, he had shared maybe a little too much with them. It had made him feel better at the time, but he still felt disloyal. A little, anyway. Less than before, almost certainly.

“It might,” Elisabeth said, patting him on the arm. “Because although I normally eschew such . . . unsubtle behavior, I could not guarantee that I wouldn't slap him.”

Sid laughed a little. “It might do him good. And I'm getting to the point that I just don't care.” He sighed. “Still . . . at the risk of sounding like a coward, I can't deal with anything else right now. So you're probably right to go. I'll miss you.” He corrected himself: “I've been missing you.”

“If you want to come back to Boston and stay with us, you certainly may. We'd love to have you, wouldn't we, Lis?”

“We would. Any time at all, my dear.”

“I may take you up on that.” Sid hesitated for a second, and then put his arms around both of them. “I really love you guys.” He squeezed them. “Now please take off before I turn into a puddle.”

He stood there and waved until the car pulled out of sight. Then he took a couple of deep breaths and walked back into the house. Italy was five hours ahead of Nova Scotia, so the opera was going to start soon. Daniel had set the music player up for him, and once he was sure it was working, he could head over to see his parents.

**********

Sid walked into his bedroom carrying the music player. It wasn't all that late, and he was trying to figure out if he wanted to start listening to Andrew now, or save the new opera for another time and listen to the Favorites play list. He decided to wait to make up his mind until after he'd gotten ready for bed, so he put the player down on the bedside table—and his eyes narrowed. There was something . . . wrong . . . with his pillow. He lifted it up . . . and started to laugh.

Lying there was a sock. A sock with a bow on it. And an envelope, with his name scrawled on it in Andrew's kind of messy script.

He opened the envelope and read:

 

> My dearest goose,
> 
> Since I can't be there on your special day, I've enlisted the help of some friendly elves to plant this under your pillow. Said elves had already planned to be in your neighborhood, so it all worked out quite well!
> 
> Inside the sock (you see, I'm a firm believer in traditions!) is a small trifle of my esteem. It is a _bagatelle_ in the true sense of the word; I saw it on eBay, and I couldn't resist. Literally. It is not, perhaps, something you will get a lot of use out of right now, so please feel free to tuck it away for a future stage of your evolution.
> 
> I wish I were there to sing you to sleep (you might say I'm counting the minutes!), but since that's not possible, I asked the more technologically-inclined elf to add something to your player. It is my wish that when you get into bed tonight, you lay your head on your pillow and listen to a small tribute, which you will find on the Birthday tag list. And if, by some odd quirk of fate, you happen to run into Bradley any time soon, you might want to thank him, because he was instrumental in my being able to give you the particular version of what you will hear tonight.
> 
> You are the song of my heart, Sidney. I love you now, and always will.
> 
> —Sasha

Sid reread Andrew's message three times, smiling even as he fought back tears. He put the note down, and gave it a little pat. Then he turned his attention to the sock. Which turned out to be two socks. Again.

He shook his head. “You'd better watch out, Andrew, or you'll be seeing Tolliver yourself.” It was a fond thought.

He reached into the inner sock, and pulled out . . . a _Bewitched_ wrist watch.

Sid honked for at least five minutes.

 


	28. Chapter 28

Sid was not at all surprised when he got off the plane in Pittsburgh to find Tommy waiting for him. Pleased, yes; surprised, no.

Well, maybe there was a little surprise. But it was directed at himself, because he found himself giving Tommy a bro hug without even thinking about it. And surprise might actually be a little mild for what he saw on Tommy's face. Mixed with real pleasure.

All in all, Sid was going to call it a win. Despite the obvious presence of camera phones.

“Thank Christ you're finally here,” Tommy groused, albeit under his breath, as they made their way to baggage claim. “Why is your plane always so fucking late? Your . . . what did Ace call it? Impressive ass, that's it. Your impressive ass weigh things down?”

“I'm ignoring that,” Sid announced.

Tommy snickered. “Nice to see the summer hasn't changed you any, Sid.”

Stopping short, Sid gave the rookie (okay, okay, he wasn't anymore, but Sid had a right to his own mind, didn't he? As long as Tolliver couldn't read thoughts, which God forbid) a frigid stare.

“What?”

“You have no idea,” Sid said. “And I'm not talking about it here.”

“Okay,” Tommy said slowly. They resumed walking, but after three or four steps, Tommy stopped.

“Is something wrong between you and Ace?” he asked. No one could have heard him, but there was no mistaking the . . . intensity of the question.

Sid rolled his eyes in his best, Andrew-inspired fashion.

“No.” Then: “Absolutely not.”

“Well, good. 'Cause I didn't sign on for a season sponsored by Lifetime Movies of the Week.”

Sid laughed. His real laugh. “Fuck you. And get a move on; I want to get out of here and get home. I haven't been there for four months. When did you get back?”

“Two days ago. Which I told you about, remember?”

“Obviously not. Any problems at home?”

Tommy shook his head. “Everything seems good. I stopped at the post office yesterday and started the mail again; you've got about twelve tons of junk waiting for you. Oh, and UPS came just as I left for the airport—you got a box.”

“I haven't ordered anything. I wonder. . . . Well, whatever.” The bell rang, and the conveyor belt started moving.

“You need me to grab your stuff? How's the arm doing?”

Sid flexed it. “Pretty good. I did PT in Boston—did I tell you that?—and they worked me over; my regular guy in Halifax gave me a good report when I got back. Of course, we'll have to see what our guys say; I'm their first customer tomorrow morning.”

“Lucky you. Okay, is this black bag, which looks like every other black bag in the world, yours?”

“No. And stop channeling Andrew.” Sid couldn't stop his grin from showing. “He bitched and moaned about how my suitcases were clones. And then he got me some new luggage tags.” He attempted an Andrew-voice: “'To make them somewhat identifiable.'”

“That was pretty good. What do they look like?”

“You'll see. Oh, there's one.” He reached over, and pulled a bag off the belt.

“Is that a . . . ? Holy shit!” Tommy cracked up.

“Isn't it great?” Sid was beaming. He reached down and straightened out the tag, so the side of the puck with the Pens logo on it was showing.

It was the beginning of a new season, and all things seemed possible.

**********

When they got home, Sid took one step into the kitchen and stopped dead in his tracks.

“What the . . . ?”

There was a flash. Sid shook his head.

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“Capturing the look on your face. Surprised?”

“You could say that.” He looked around. “Wow. Just . . . wow. What a difference!”

“I know. Daniel was pleased.”

“You were here?”

Tommy nodded. “I hung around for a few days after we were out; I didn't want to go home right away—you know, the way things ended, I just didn't want to deal with people that soon—and I thought Ace could use the company.” He snorted slightly. “I didn't count on being put to work, I can tell you. But . . . Andrew's parents are fun. His dad's hysterical sometimes. Andrew and his mom kept reining him in—or trying to, anyhow—and he'd just pull out his phone and point to that text you sent, and he'd say, in this fake innocent tone, 'But I have permission!'”

“Well, he did. I guess. And I can't believe how much better it looks. Why does the color matter so much?”

“Believe it or not, there's a scientific explanation. Which I listened to for all of ten seconds before I got lost. Bottom line: color is important.”

“I guess so.” Sid walked over to one of the walls and peered at it close up. “What color is this, anyway?”

“I got no idea. He mixed it up himself. Well, he came up with the formula. And then we went to the paint store, and he watched over things like a hawk; the sales guy was sweating bullets.”

“I can imagine. It looks great. Wait: you said, rein him in. What else did he do?”

“Media room. Which is now rearranged, courtesy of Andrew's mom and her slaves. Which would be Ace and me. The piano room. That's all they did when I was here, but my room's done now too, and so is yours. And . . . okay, Sid. That's not all they did. Well, all _he_ did; it had to be him. You ready?”

“You're kind of freaking me out. Is it bad?”

“Fuck, no! Not at all. But . . . well, you'll have to decide for yourself. _I_ think it's awesome. But that's me.”

“Show me.” Sid couldn't imagine what he was going to see. He wasn't too worried—he trusted Daniel, after all—but he was . . . wary of change. Especially these days.

He followed Tommy to the front of the house.

“Hang on a sec; let me turn on the lights. So you get the full effect. Okay: now.”

Sid walked into the front hall—and his jaw dropped.

“Oh my fucking God!”

The entire wall by the stairs was now a mural. Of the Pens. Except that. . . .

“It's like my Christmas present!” Sid said wonderingly. “Except it's . . . everybody! We're all different!”

Sid, of course, was a goose. Geno was a bear. Flower was a beaver—and the net was kind of shaped like a lodge. Tommy was an otter, and Nealer. . . . Sid started laughing hysterically. “Look at Nealer's antlers!”

“He is gonna shit himself when he sees that! All the guys will, I bet.”

“For sure! Fuck! I can't believe this!” He looked over every member of the team. “It's just . . . fantastic!”

“It is. _I_ can't believe how frickin' talented Daniel is. I mean, he's a tech genius, he plays the piano, he can paint like this. Is there anything that guy can't do?”

“Well . . . he's a terrible driver. I mean, really, really terrible. And I'm not being insulting; he says it himself. Well, sort of.”

“Whatever. That's good to know, actually: makes him more human.”

Sid snorted, thinking of Daniel dancing around Sid's kitchen waving his spatula and wearing his party hat. His Pens party hat. “I have to call and thank him. And . . . hey, you know what?” Impulsively.

“What?”

“Let's have all the guys over. And Mario.” Who was, appropriately enough, a penguin. “When everybody gets back. Maybe . . . the night before training camp. You up for that?”

“Sure.”

“Good. That way, everybody can see it at the same time. It'll be great. We'll do food. Well, some. And beer.” And maybe, with everybody there. . . .

“Sounds good. So. Sid.”

“What?”

“What was all that in the airport? What's going on?”

Sid sighed, and accepted the inevitable. A trial run, then.

“Okay. Let's go sit down. I've got some stuff to tell you.”

**********

Tommy mostly didn't interrupt Sid, except to ask “What does that mean?” a couple of times. Which Sid appreciated. When he finally finished, Tommy sat there, obviously thinking hard.

“So,” he said finally, “it's kind of like that TV show. _Monk_. Except that it's not TV, and it's not exactly funny. When it's happening to you.”

“Hardly,” Sid said dryly. “Not that I've ever seen that show. But I can tell you, based on my experience, it's not a lot of laughs.”

“So. Are you going to tell the guys?”

Sid hesitated. “I'm supposed to. My doctor wants me to. She says that every behavior that I ignore makes it that much more likely that I'll get . . . uh, overwhelmed.” He refused to use the word incapacitated.

Tommy bit his lip. “But . . . it's complicated, ain't it? It's not just you. I mean, I mostly don't do stuff like what you're talking about, but I like my routines too. And I got to tell you, Sid, it'd be fucking weird to head out to the ice without you and Geno doing your little dance. I bet a lot of the guys won't like it if you stop. I don't know if Geno would even consider not doing it.”

“I don't either,” Sid said glumly. “Hence, as Andrew would say, the need to talk about it.” He made a face. “Obviously, I'm not going to interfere with anybody else. The guys can do whatever they want. And it's not like this is going to happen overnight. It's a gradual process, and believe me, when I say gradual, I probably mean glacial.” He hesitated. “It's not that I don't want to get better. 'Cause I do. But . . . don't you ever fucking repeat this to anyone, you hear me? It's . . . hard, Tommy. It's like I'm fighting myself every step of the way. I don't like change.”

“Fucking news flash, Sid.”

Sid scowled at him, but his heart really wasn't in it. “Anyway. That's the story. Thanks for listening.”

Tommy rolled his eyes. “You don't got to thank me. But I have a question. Where do I fit in all of this?”

“Huh? What do you mean?”

“Why'd you tell me first?”

Sid floundered a bit. “You live here?”

“Well, yeah. I do. And I got to tell you, Sid, I like living here with you. But I never in a million years thought you'd want to keep doing it this season. So, imagine my surprise when you call me and, okay, let's be real here, _command_ me not to get my own place. I guess what I'm asking is, do you want me here for some OCD reason? Or do you want me here for me? Either way, it's fine; I just want to know.”

Sid closed his eyes for a minute. His head hurt. "You want the truth?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” Sid opened his eyes and glared at him. “The truth is, I told Andrew in April that I didn't want you to move out. And I don't have any OCD rituals that involve you, Tommy. Sure, we have our routines. And they work. But more important is the fact that you and me, we get along. I don't like change; you don't like impermanence. Which, as I'm sure you know, since you're so fucking smart and pick up on absolutely everything—is just another way of saying you don't like change either. I do depend on you some, Tommy, and I'm sorry if that weirds you out, but . . . we're also friends. Well: I guess I shouldn't speak for you. _I_ think of you as my friend. And . . . oh, fuck it. I don't have a little brother, but I maybe kind of feel about you the same way I do about Taylor. A little, anyway. It feels . . . good to be around you. Comfortable. You feel like . . . fuck, I don't know. Home. I can be myself around you.”

With an eyebrow-raise worthy of Andrew at his best, Tommy said, “You mean bossy?”

“Fuck you,” Sid said, vainly trying to swallow a laugh. Tommy didn't even try.

“Sweet bleeding Jesus,” he said when he'd calmed down, “that must have really hurt, Sid.”

“I am seriously rethinking all of my life choices right now,” Sid announced. “And you're number one on the list.”

“Yeah, yeah. Anything you want to add before I say something?”

“No. Well . . . maybe. I think you're a good hockey player. And I'm pretty sure you're better at being gay than I am. And I'm absolutely sure that I will never give you another compliment, since you've just used up your lifetime quota.”

Tommy laughed again; it had a . . . carefree sound. “Gotta get it while I'm young, I guess. Listen, Sid. Thanks. Seriously. Thanks for saying all of that. And thanks for being honest. And for the record, as your boyfriend would say, I am your friend. And I think of you as my friend. And I'm not freaked out by you depending on me—not that I really know what that means. I know what it would mean to me, but I got no idea what it means in the dictionary of Sid. Friends lean on each other; friends help each other. And by that definition, I depend on you too. So, it's good; don't sweat it.”

He paused. “You know, I got five older brothers; the last thing I need is another one. And to be honest, I don't exactly think of you as a brother; for one thing, I usually don't want to break a stick over your head.”

Sid laughed.

“So, I don't know. You can think of me as your little brother if you want. And maybe I'll call you 'big bro' some day in front of reporters and watch them go nuts. But . . . I do think of you as family. After all, we're gay; we're allowed to color outside the lines. And in that spirit. . . .” He stood up, yanked Sid off his stool and gave him a hug. Which Sid returned.

“One last thing. Since we're now related by gayness, I get to ask you anything I want. I really want to know: what the fuck does Ace do to you that makes you scream so loud?”

Sid blushed. He considered telling Tommy to go fuck himself. But. . . .

“Everything,” he confessed. And burst out laughing.

**********

Sid was about to take his bags upstairs and unpack, when he got sidetracked.

“Aren't you going to open your box?”

“I forgot.” He walked over and inspected it. “It's from some place in Boston; it must be from Andrew! Or his parents.” He pulled open a drawer and took out a pair of scissors. On top of all of the packing was a note. 

> _Welcome home, Sidney! Use this for good health!_

It was signed “S.”

Sid smiled. He clawed away the bubble wrap, looked . . . and groaned.

“What is it?”

“About thirty pounds of brown rice.”

**********

Sid shut the door, turned around, and sagged against it in relief. “Thank fucking God,” he said to Geno and Tommy. “I don't care that training camp starts tomorrow; I need a drink. A real one.” He headed for the kitchen.

“I'm think it go good,” Geno said, following in his wake. And Tommy agreed, but added, “You probably should have talked to Flower beforehand. When you said, 'I'm sick,' I thought he was going to crap himself.”

Sid winced. “I probably should have. Fuck; it never occurred to me. I'll have to apologize.” He took a glass out of the cupboard. “It was hard enough telling the two of you—and Mario—one-on-one; I didn't want to go through that again.”

Tommy pulled the glass out of his hand. “I'm guessing you want one of your Zens.”

“That'd be good, thanks.” Sid hesitated, and then pulled out his phone. “Let me call Flower now, while I'm thinking of it.”

Geno gave him a startled look, and Tommy shook his head. “Geno, you have no idea what it's like around here now. Sid's train no longer stops at Procrastination Station.”

Sid gave him the finger, and then started talking to Flower. He was laughing by the time they ended the call.

“I don't think he's mad at me,” he told the others. “Once I explained why. I think he was afraid I thought he wouldn't understand. He said, 'For fuck's sake, Sid, I'm a goalie; we invented craziness.'” They all laughed.

He picked up his drink and took a grateful swallow. “Thanks, Tommy.”

“You're welcome. So, Sid: tonight was your second big reveal to the team, and the first one where you actually revealed something. You planning on any more?”

“Not if I can help it,” Sid said fervently. Then he tilted his head in thought. “Well, maybe one more.” He smiled.

Geno exchanged glances with Tommy. “What is it?”

Sid shook his head. “I'm not saying. So don't ask. And don't try to guess. Seriously. I'm asking you as my friends.”

Geno shrugged. “Okay. You tell when ready.”

Sid turned to Tommy. “What about you?”

“Okay, I won't bring it up. But just so we're clear: I already know what it is.”

“No, you don't.”

“Yes, I do. There's only two possibilities, and I bet I know which one you're thinking of.”

Sid huffed. “You're impossible. And you're wrong.”

“We'll see. Anyway: I have to say, the guys asked good questions. But Nealer's was the best: 'How did Ace trick you into going to the doctor?' Even Mario lost it.”

Geno laughed heartily as Sid scowled.

“Nealer can go sit on his antlers. No, wait: he'd actually enjoy that.”

“Who wouldn't?” Tommy commented.

Geno opened his mouth. And then closed it. And then Sid and Tommy watched as he turned bright red. They exchanged fascinated glances.

“Geno? Anything you want to share?”

“No?” he said weakly.

The other two moved in for the kill.

**********

Sid was still lifting the phone towards his head when he asked, “Do you know what pegging is?”

“What, no 'hey'? Is this, in fact, Sidney Crosby?”

“You know it is. And you also know I'm supposed to break out of my patterns. But hey. Do you? Know what pegging means?”

“Doesn't it mean something like guessing? As in, 'I had you pegged as a Flyers fan.'”

Sid made a disgusted face. “Ugh. And no. Well, yes, it does mean that. Except for the Flyers part. It also means when a woman fucks a man up the ass with a strap-on.”

There was dead silence on the line. Then Andrew said, “No, Sidney, I did _not_ know that.”

“I didn't either!” Sid felt vindicated.

“Do I even want to know why you're talking about this?”

Sid ignored the question. “Tommy knew. Of course. But Geno didn't. And he's the one who did it.”

“Sidney, what . . . wait. _What_ did you just say?”

“Geno did it. This summer. In Russia. A lot, apparently. And that's not all.”

“Before you say another word,” Andrew begged, “please give me a moment to catch up. I need to process this.”

Sid drummed his fingers against the mattress while he waited.

“All right. I'm back. I honestly don't know why I found that so surprising. I mean, _we_ both like to get fucked, so why shouldn't Zhenya?”

“I guess. But . . . okay. It's not that so much. But . . . a strap-on?” Sid didn't even try to keep the horror out of his voice. “If you want to get fucked, why not use a real dick?”

“I imagine because a real dick would be attached to a real man, and men who identify as straight would find that somewhat of a turn-off. Liking getting fucked doesn't have to mean anything other than liking the sensation. There is, as Dr. Tolliver likes to tell us, a difference between our thoughts and our behaviors.”

“Maybe. No, of course there is; I should know. But I just can't imagine putting a _foreign object_ inside me.” He shuddered.

“I don't disagree,” Andrew said; “I tried using a dildo once, and I did not like the experience. At all. But I suspect we're in the minority. Did you know that in one of his plays, Aristophanes described dildos as 'consolation prizes?' 'Leather consolation prizes,' to be precise.”

Sid actually moved his phone so he could stare at it in disbelief. “No, Sasha, I did _not_ know that. How the fuck do _you_ know that? And leather? Gross.”

“I do read sometimes, Sidney,” Andrew said, with what Sid supposed was pardonable sarcasm. “As for this particular fun fact: I went to an extremely expensive prep school; naturally, anything that was about sex made the rounds immediately. And leather wouldn't be my first choice either. Anyway: what else about Zhenya?”

“He had a _three-way!_ With her and another guy!” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Sid realized he'd lowered his voice to a whisper. Which made him feel really stupid, since he was alone in his bedroom with the door closed.

“Okay,” Andrew said slowly. “And?”

“ _And?_ ” Sid's voice practically squeaked.

“Tell me, what shocks you more: that it was a three-way, or that another man was present?”

“Andrew, this is _Geno_ we're talking about!”

“I realize that, Sidney. Now answer my question.”

Sid had to stop and think. “I guess . . . the three-way part. I mean, I'm not stupid; I know three-ways happen. Maybe not all the time, but often enough; you can't spend as much time in a locker room as I do and not hear about them. But . . . Geno just doesn't seem the _type_. Tanger, yes. Nealer, yes. But not Geno. And . . . oh.”

“What?”

“I'm . . . wait, I'm just figuring something out. Give me a second. . . . Okay. I'm kind of right, and I'm kind of wrong. Geno isn't the type to have the same kind of three-way that Tanger and Nealer do. Did. Whatever. Geno was _blushing_ , Sasha—you should have seen it! And he got all shy.” Sid was conscious of tension he hadn't even been aware of disappearing. “All right. I get it now. God, I'm stupid sometimes.”

“Don't denigrate yourself, Sidney. So, did Zhenya enjoy himself?”

Sid settled back against his pillow. “He certainly seemed to. Tommy kept pushing him for details. And he kept blushing.”

“Details? I like the sound of that. Will you share, or do I need to call Tommy?”

“You will anyway.” Sid smiled at the peals of laughter coming through his phone.

“I might at that. But give me a hint at least.”

“Well, the part he blushed the most about was when he was fucking the guy, and she was fucking him.”

“Ooh. Lucky Pierre.”

“Huh?”

“Lucky Pierre. That's what the person in the middle is called. Or, as someone once described it to me, the guy who gets to have his cake and eat it too. Although I now believe that description to be somewhat inaccurate, because you don't really need three people for that; it's quite possible to rim someone and be rimmed by him at the same time. As we well know.”

“We for sure do.” Sid adjusted himself. The thought of rimming someone, or even being rimmed, had always squicked him out. Until Andrew had just dived in one day, and after that experience, Sid absolutely could not resist trying it for himself.

“Well, good for him. I wish I could have been there to watch him talk about it.”

“I wouldn't be surprised if Tommy recorded it on his phone.”

“That would work. But I'd rather have pictures.”

Sid laughed. And then he gathered his courage. “Hey, Sasha? Can I ask you a question?”

“Of course.”

“Have you ever had a three-way?”

“I have.”

“Really?”

“Why do you sound so surprised? I did have sex before I met you, you know.”

For once, Sid was the one who made the raspberry. “I know that. But . . . and please don't take this the wrong way . . . you're a very, I don't know, private person. I can't exactly see you . . . uh, lowering your guard enough to do something like that.”

There was a brief silence and then Andrew sighed. “You can't see me, but I'm shaking my head in disbelief. How do you _do_ that? How do you read me so well? I had the _exact_ same thought the day after I had the three-way. Truly. I used those exact words. I looked at myself in the mirror and I said, 'I can't believe you lowered your guard like that.' It's . . . uncanny.” He laughed a little. “Maybe _Babushka_ Svetlana was right.”

“Your grandmother? About what?”

“She always claimed that one day, I'd meet someone special, and we would be _rodstvennyye dushi._ That. . . .”

Sid interrupted him. “You mom told me that. She said it means, uh, friends and lovers too. At the same time, I guess.”

“Well, I suppose you could translate it like that. Loosely. Literally, though, it means soul mates.”

“Really?” Sid liked that idea. A lot. “Did you know that there's such a thing as hockey soul mates?”

“No, I did not. Are you kidding?”

“No. Well, not exactly. It's a thing reporters say about teammates. Usually line mates. Like Getzlaf and Perry of the Ducks. Or even Kane and Toews, although not so much anymore.”

“Interesting; maybe I'll look it up. Anyway, why did you ask me about the three-way? Just because of Zhenya?”

“That was probably the main reason. Plus, I was curious. And also . . . okay. I didn't tell you this before, because I didn't know how you'd react.”

“You certainly know how to command my attention. Do go on.”

Sid snickered. “I love it when you get that tone in your voice.”

“What tone is that?”

“That ultra-polite tone. The one that really means, 'Enjoy your last meal, because you're about to die a painful and messy death.'”

“You forgot to add 'slow' to your description.”

Sid attempted to channel Andrew. “Do forgive me.”

They both laughed.

“You were about to say. . . ?”

“Remember when we were in New York? And we bumped into John?”

“I'm not likely to forget that little encounter. Ever.”

“I like that tone too. Anyway: then I had coffee with him. And he asked me all these questions, which I know I told you about. But what I didn't tell you, was that one of the questions was whether we—that would be you and me—would be interested in having a three-way with him.”

“I see. And you said . . . ?”

“I said that of course, I couldn't speak for you.”

“ _Did_ you?”

Sid was enjoying himself. “I did.” He paused, for effect. “Of course, that was after I laughed in his face.” He'd enjoyed that. He was also enjoying the sounds of merriment coming across the phone. “And then I told him, 'But speaking for myself, no.'”

“An _excellent_ response, _mon oie_. Good grief, he is the _last_ person I would share you with. Well—among the last. For the record, Sidney: any potential three-way participant must possess more brains than God gave a slug. So that disqualifies _him_. How much did the NHL have to pay his village, I wonder, to make them give up their biggest idiot?”

“God, you're funny,” Sid said when he'd finished honking. “Can you talk some more? I'll probably be a mess tomorrow, but I know I can't fall asleep yet.”

“Of course. Well: for the next hour or so, at any rate. Then I'll need to sleep myself. What shall we talk about?”

“Tell me about your three-way.”

“Why on earth would I want to do that?”

“Because I'm curious. More about what made you do it, if I'm being honest, than about . . . well, what you actually did. I don't know if I want to hear about that part.”

“Oh, I don't think it would bother you in the slightest. And I'm not sure I can talk about the why, without talking about the what. But if you really want to know, fine.

“It was about six years ago. In D.C. I was in rehearsals for _La Sonnambula_. Which has one of the most ridiculous plots in all of opera, and that's saying something. The director was a real . . . well, let's say pip, and leave it at that. No, actually, let's not. He was a pompous, egotistical asshole, and his ideas about the opera were idiotic. And pretentious. Like him. And smarmy? Ick. Every time I left rehearsal I wanted nothing more than a long, hot shower to wash him away.

“It was a Friday night. I was tired. And cranky. And, frankly, horny. So I thought I'd go out and try and find a warm body who knew nothing about opera. I'd heard a couple of the guys in the chorus raving about a club, so I went there. As soon as I walked in, I was almost certain that I'd made a mistake, but there were lots of warm bodies there, so I thought I should at least give it a chance, and I walked over to the bar to order a drink. And there were these two guys standing there. They were older: I'd say, mid-forties. One of them said to me, 'You might have better luck at the other bar; we've been waiting for him to notice us for ten minutes.' He had a lovely southern accent. So I asked what the problem was; I mean, it was busy, but not that busy. And the other guy laughed a little and said, 'I'm guessing we're too old for this place.' So, just then, the bartender came over, and he ignored them and asked me what I wanted. I told him, 'Actually, I think these men have been waiting longer.'

And he stared blankly at me, as if I were speaking in tongues, and then he reached down and starting rubbing his crotch, and said, 'Come on, cutie; tell me what you want.'

“So I said, 'You to go fuck yourself,' and I turned to the couple and said, 'Let's go somewhere else.' And the minute we got outside, I started apologizing. . . .”

“For the bartender?”

“No. For my language.”

Sid could just see it. “What did they say?”

“Oh, they just laughed at me. And I could tell they were nice. So I asked them if they knew another place where we could have a drink. And once I convinced them I was serious, we did. Oh, Sidney; you'll love this part. We went to a sports bar.” He burst out laughing. “I had no idea what was going on. I wasn't even sure at first what sport they were playing, because there'd be about five seconds of action, and then ten minutes of commentary.”

“Football, then.”

“Precisely. One of the men was a high school gym teacher; the other one was a personal trainer in a health club. They were from Atlanta, and that trip was to celebrate their anniversary; they'd been together for twenty-five years. And they were so sweet together. So we drank beer and ate wings and they tried to teach me about football, which . . . well, let's just say it didn't take. I told them I was a musician.

“Anyway, at one point I went to pee, and when I got back, they suggested we go somewhere quieter for a nightcap. So we did. And then they told me that they had this fantasy of sharing somebody. And I literally did not know what to say. So Hugh—he was the gym teacher—said, 'Alex, is there any chance you'd like to be our anniversary present to each other?'

“So . . . I said yes. And we went to their hotel room and . . . oh, Sidney. It was lovely. And sweet. And, if I'm being honest, a little unsettling at times. They lavished all of this attention on me, but sometimes, it felt as if I weren't even there. They hardly ever took their eyes off of each other. And everybody came, and we had a little nap, and then I took a shower and left. And they gave me their address and phone number, and said if I were ever in their area, I should look them up.”

“Did you?” Sid asked curiously.

“I did. And I wish I hadn't. Because by that point, they knew who I was, and it was rather awkward. And when we got down to the sex part, I didn't feel right about it, so I told them that I wanted to watch the two of them. Which was not a lie, incidentally. And so that's what we did.

“And that's the story of my three-way. And it's also why I never again broke my rule about having sex with the same person more than once. Until I met you, of course; naturally, you changed _all_ of the rules.”

Sid thought he could _hear_ Andrew's special smile. Which was nice, because he was sporting one of his own.

“Well, thanks for telling me. That was a nice story, by the way; I can totally see why you did it. But . . . a follow-up question?”

“Sure.”

“How did they know who you were? Did you tell them?”

“Not . . . exactly. I said I was in Atlanta for a job. Which was the truth. But . . . well, the Atlanta Opera made a big deal of my singing there. To the point that there was a long article about it in the Sunday paper. Complete with my picture. I suppose you could say that reality interfered with the fantasy.”

There was so much that Sid could read into Andrew's tone, and part of him wanted to talk about it. But he filed it away in the 'Puzzles about Andrew' section of his brain. Instead, he started talking about how the guys had taken the news about his OCD. Which was probably where he should have started. And by the time they'd covered that topic, it was lullaby time. For Andrew, at least.

Sid lay awake for at least another hour, alone with his thoughts.

**********

Training camp . . . was hard. In all of the usual ways, and also in some kind of unusual ways. Sid had done what he'd could over the summer, but there was no denying that he wasn't completely where he should be. Well, he wouldn't deny it, but nobody else seemed to feel that way, and he had to endure almost daily harangues from the medical staff about reining himself in. And Mario and Coach backed them up, which Sid did not appreciate. He also did not appreciate whoever leaked the news that some people thought he might possibly be trying to do too much, to Andrew. Who delivered a tirade in at least three languages that ended with a threat to show up there and physically restrain him. Except that he called it a promise and not a threat. And which Sid would have resented a lot more if Andrew hadn't followed it up with an _extremely_ detailed plan of what he would _not_ do to Sid once he was restrained.

Phone sex, Sid decided a considerable time later, was an underused motivational tool.

Then Mario came up with the idea of having Tolliver talk to the entire team: not to discuss Sid's specific case, he said, but to educate everybody and to strategize about how they could help. Sid didn't know what to say to that; he had just about decided upon “Fuck no!” when Mario informed him that Tolliver thought it was a good idea, and that she was more than willing to Skype with the team, or even fly down and do it in person. Sid didn't know what his face looked like, but Mario jumped to his feet and asked him if he was going to pass out.

By the time the preseason began, Sid was seriously entertaining the notion of moving to Philadelphia.

And yet. And yet. The Pens won their first four games. And Sid felt . . . looser on the ice than he had in years. Looser, and yet, more in control. He felt so good, in fact, that he let Tolliver talk him into eliminating one of his fourth-line pregame routines.

They dropped the next game.

And then Sid had a choice—one which he didn't even need Tolliver to point out to him. He could reinstate the ritual, and thereby rack up another loss, albeit of a different kind . . . or, he could see what happened with the next game.

He decided on option two.

He didn't get any points, but the Pens won.

“Now I don't know what to think,” he complained to Andrew over the phone that night.

“Dad would probably say that you don't have enough data to make a hypothesis. I, however, am not as nice a person as my father is, and furthermore, am under direct orders from Dr. Tolliver to point out that you are attempting to apply the rules of logic to a situation that is inherently illogical.”

“Maybe I should be dating your father then,” Sid said grumpily.

“Oh Sidney,” Andrew said when he'd stopped laughing, “I think I'd pay actual money to see that.”

His sense of humor partially restored, Sid boasted, “We'd be awesome together.”

“You probably would,” Andrew agreed. “But I thought you weren't interested in three-ways. And Dad doesn't do men unless Mom. . . .” He cut himself off abruptly.

“Andrew,” Sid said delicately, after a few moments of a silence so thick he could practically feel it, “would you care to finish that sentence?”

“Not in the slightest. And I can say no in more languages than you've ever heard of.”

“Oh my God. Oh my fucking God! How the _fuck_ do you know this? Do you and your parents actually _talk_ about things like this?”

Andrew's sigh seemed to come from the center of the earth. “Not as a general rule. We ended up having to talk about it when I came home once unexpectedly and walked in on them . . . well, let's just say entertaining a guest out by the pool, and leave it at that, okay?”

Sid tried to imagine that scene.

“Oh, there's no way we're leaving it at that! What the fuck did you do? For that matter, what the fuck did you _say_?”

Another sigh. “I didn't do anything, really. And as for what I said—well, it was not my finest hour. Because I just stood there and said, 'What are you doing?' And Dad said, 'Isn't it obvious?' And Mom said, 'Don't be obtuse, darling.'”

It took Sid several minutes to stop honking.

“It's okay for you to laugh,” Andrew said a trifle bitterly, when Sid had finally subsided, “but they're my parents! I honestly don't care what they do, but I can never unsee that—not if I live to be a hundred.”

“Sasha. Not even if you live to be a thousand.”

“You're such a comfort. Not.”

**********

It was the night before the regular season started, and Sid's media room was packed.

“I don't know how you talked me into this,” Andrew groused under his breath.

Sid shoulder-checked him. “Button it, Copley.”

Andrew narrowed his eyes. And hissed, “Sidney, this is embarrassing!”

“No, it's not. Everybody else wants to see this. But you can be embarrassed if you want. There's no such thing as a bad feeling.”

“Ugh. You have no idea how much I am regretting my role in getting you into therapy. Although that doesn't exactly sound like something Tolliver would say.”

“She didn't. It's from a movie. I think.”

“You two: shut face,” Geno ordered. “It start.”

“Where's the vodka? I'm not nearly drunk enough for this.” Andrew took a gulp and stared at the screen. “Well, at least they spelled my name right.”

**********

“Hey!” Sid complained, as the closing credits came on. “Where's your encore?”

“They cut it; otherwise, the whole thing would have been too long. I told them it was okay. Not that they wouldn't have done it anyway. Oh look: there's the party afterwards.”

Geno laughed. “You and Ovi look like best friend, Sid.”

“That's a great shot of your parents, Ace. Who's that they're talking to?”

Sid felt Andrew start, and gave him a look. Then his jaw dropped. And then he grunted—loudly—as Andrew's elbow jabbed him in the gut.

“Good grief; I think Ovechkin got more face time than I did,” Andrew said brightly. “Well, it's over.” He stood up. “I think I need another drink. Or three. Excuse me a minute.”

“I'll help you.”

“Don't trouble yourself, Sidney.”

“Oh, it's no trouble.”

“I assure you I don't need any help.”

“Then I'll just keep you company.” Andrew rolled his eyes and escaped—with Sid on his heels; Nealer's “What's with them?” floated in their wake.

When they got to the kitchen, Andrew lunged for the vodka, but Sid hip-checked him into the sink and grabbed the bottle first.

“Uh uh,” he said, wagging his finger. “No vodka for you. Yet.”

“Sidney.” In a very dangerous tone. “Give me that bottle.”

“Nope. Not until you answer a couple of questions. Did you know? Hah!” Sid pushed one of the stools in front of him and darted around the island, while Andrew attempted not to stumble. “Did you?”

“I . . . suspected. They disappeared for a while. Remember? They were late for dinner. And they looked . . . sated. May I have my vodka now?”

“In a minute. Did you know who?”

Andrew shook his head. “I had no idea. Not until,” and he jerked his head in the general direction of the media room. “Mom looked like she was ready to pounce.”

“Holy shit. I mean . . . holy fucking shit.” He shook his head, and handed over the bottle. “Can you make me a drink too?”

“In need of something restorative?”

“I'll say.” And then Sid snorted.

“What?”

“Trust them to pick the best-looking guy in the entire league.”

They were both on the floor when they finally finished laughing. And they had a very interested audience.

 


	29. Chapter 29

“This is such fucking bullshit, Sid!”

“Stop complaining,” Sid said, without a trace of sympathy. “You signed on for this.”

“I did no such fucking thing! All I wanted was to play hockey.”

“And you are. And you're good at it. A lot better than anybody thought you were. You're a statistical anomaly. And hence, as Andrew would say, worthy of being noticed. And of course it's fucking bullshit. But it's necessary. It's what happens when you're one of the three stars four times in a row. And one of the players of the week. And probably in the running for player of the month.”

Tommy looked like he wanted to spit. “The media training, I kind of get. I know my grammar's fucked up. And I know I shoot my mouth off too much. But this?” He made a wild gesture. “What's wrong with my suits? I paid good money for them!”

“Then you got robbed.”

“You certainly did,” Andrew said, rejoining them. “Never again buy suits with an Italian line to them, Tommy; you're too bulky for them. And we're pressed for time, so button it.”

“I still don't see why we had to come to Boston on our day off.”

“Because we haven't got the time to go to England. And because,” this time, Andrew drew the word out, “my tailor is doing you an enormous favor by rushing at least two of these. Now stop pouting and pay attention. And Sidney, stop looking at those; you look like an enforcer for the mob in white pin stripes, and Tommy would look worse.”

“I like white pin stripes.”

“And that fact does not refute my point. Tommy: pick one of these herringbones.”

“That olive one,” Sid said definitely.

“An excellent choice. Now, I really like this muted Glen plaid. What do you think, Sidney?”

“I'd say no. But there's a navy one I saw . . . oh, here. I don't know what color that narrow stripe is, but it'd look good on him.”

“It's kind of a plum, I think. Another excellent choice. Moving on: here's a cashmere blend for a solid gray—I'd suggest something not quite charcoal.”

“I should get black. Shouldn't I?”

“Whose funeral are you going to? Your own?”

“Fuck you, Sid.”

“And finally, one just a little nicer for special occasions. I'm thinking something in this family.”

“That's fantastic. What kind of fabric is that? I think I want one.”

“It's got a little silk in it. I got one last year in a greyish-green; I wore it to the press conference last March.”

“I remember that; Tommy said you looked like a million bucks, and he was right. I would have had him put that picture on my phone, but it had Ovechkin in it, so no. How about this one?”

“Absolutely not; he'd look like a cadaver in slate blue. You, on the other hand, could wear it. And should. Tommy, how about this chestnut brown?”

“Oh, I get an opinion?”

Sid cuffed him. “Don't be a brat. And get the brown. Just don't wear it when I wear mine.”

“I am not going to coordinate my wardrobe with yours, Sid. It is not. Going. To. Happen.”

“Then you'll have to waste time changing.”

“Fuck you. How much is this going to cost?”

“You can afford it,” Sid said callously.

“How much?”

“Tommy.” Andrew's voice was gentle. “If you make a scene in here about money, you will embarrass me. And I will hurt you as soon as I get you outside. I will hurt you so badly you will wish you had never left Wilkes-Barre. Do you understand me?”

“Okay, fine. Now, go take care of your boyfriend before _he_ embarrasses you; I bet it's hard to get jizz out of silk blends.”

“I also have an excellent dry cleaner. He works wonders.”

**********

“That is maybe the gayest thing I have ever done,” Tommy announced as they walked through the Public Garden, “and I'm including the time I whacked off while watching Benedict Cumberbatch play Khan in the Star Trek reboot.”

Sid laughed so hard that every bird in the neighborhood came to investigate—as Andrew pointed out once he could speak again.

“Where are we going, anyway?”

“My place. Unless you two want to go out for lunch.”

“I don't . . . wait. What's being served at the House of Brown Rice?”

“It's a pity the Hawks won't play the Bruins until March,” Andrew announced to the air; “perhaps I'll have to engineer another engagement in Chicago. It will be such a pleasure to cook for Jonathan Toews again.” He adroitly evaded Sid's elbow. “Please inform your captain, Tommy, that since it's such a lovely day, I thought we'd go up on the roof and grill some shish kebabs. In assorted combinations of lamb and chicken.”

“Yum. I'm sold. I'm also starving. Let's ditch Sid; I'll eat his share.”

“Oh, we'll let him tag along. Everything's ready, so it won't take long. Come on; we cross over here.” He led the way. "And over lunch, I will regale you both with tales of my recent research into ancient grains. I've uncovered some positively delicious-sounding recipes for farro, millet, and spelt.”

Sid made a gagging noise.

“Spelt?” Tommy asked; “I thought that was a fish.”

Andrew looked heavenward; after a moment, he sighed, “You two deserve each other.”

**********

“Nice place you've got here,” Tommy said, looking around. He nudged Sid and pointed. “Oh, look: Ace's Grammy awards. I really had to hunt to find them.

“Don't be an asshole. Or should I say, _stronzo_?”

Andrew started applauding. “You finally looked it up? I wondered how long it would take; I was giving you a year, and then I would have told you.”

“I should have waited a little longer then,” Sid groused, “and saved myself some trouble.”

“Poor you. Let me go light the grill; back in a second. Help yourselves to drinks.”

“You want anything, Tommy?”

“I want a couple of belts. To erase the thought of how much fucking money I just spent. But I'll take a water. For now.”

He followed Sid into the kitchen, and deftly caught the bottle Sid lobbed at him. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome.” Sid's attention was caught by a pile of brochures on the counter. “What's . . . huh.”

“What?”

Sid showed him. Tommy raised his eyebrows.

Andrew breezed in . . . and stopped short.

“Shit. I forgot about those.”

“Anything you want to share, Ace?” Sid was too busy grinning like an idiot to say anything.

“I had planned to, but not at this precise moment. Damn it. Ah well, it's my own fault. Tommy, you don't know this, I think, but every three years, I take some college courses in the spring. I did them here—well, in Cambridge—last time, but I was considering doing them at CMU starting in January. Assuming I can find a hospitable place to hang my hat.”

“You stole your hat from me in the first place, so of course it's welcome.” Sid reached and pulled Andrew into his arms. “And so are you. God, I can't believe it! Sasha, this is so great!”

“Well, I'm glad you're glad. Tommy, will you mind having another housemate?”

“No way. 'Course, I don't know where we'll fit you; there ain't much room in that place.”

“It _is_ a trifle small, isn't it? Seriously, though, you've hit on an important point. Sidney, if I move in—I mean, move in for a number of months—I will need some kind of space for my own. Just because I've limited the number of engagements I'll have, doesn't mean that I won't work while I'm in school. And for everybody's sanity, I think it would be best if I sound-proofed something; you two don't need to hear me practice for hours on end.”

“You don't have to do that. But whatever you want. Seriously. There's tons of room on the top floor.”

“Well, I don't think I need _that_ much. Not that I've ever actually been up there. Next time I come, we'll figure something out.”

“Just don't sound-proof the bedroom,” Tommy said with a grin. “Seriously. You two are so much better than Internet porn, even with no video.”

“Tommy, do you actually listen to us? Really?” Andrew was blushing faintly; Sid decided to forgo embarrassment in favor of pride.

“It's not really listening, you know; it's more like I can't help overhearing. You two are _loud_. It's great.” He laughed. “Don't forget: I got five older brothers; I've been overhearing things my whole life.”

**********

Andrew's phone rang when they had just about finished lunch. Well, Andrew had finished; Sid and Tommy were still eating.

“Hi Dad. Having lunch with Sidney and Tommy; Tommy needed suits. Some time tonight. Why? Really? Let me ask them.” He covered the phone. “Dad wants to know if we could stop by the office this afternoon.”

Tommy, who was chewing, just nodded; Sid smiled and said, “Sure.” It had been too long since he'd seen Daniel, although they talked at least once or twice a week.

“Okay, Dad. We'll be over soon. I don't know; however long it takes . . . Dad, we can walk from the T. Dad. . . . Okay, fine. Should I . . . oh, Simon already did? What, does he read your mind now?” Andrew made a rude noise. “You know, I think I'd kill you if I worked for you. Oh, wait: I kind of do.” He laughed. “See you in a little while.”

“What's doing with your dad?”

“I have no idea. But he said it was perfect timing. If I had to guess, I'd say it's the scheduling program; they've been pushing hard on that. And not just for us, Sidney; Dad gave a demo for the whole management team a while back, and marketing went positively apeshit. His word, not mine. They want to do a splashy release by the end of this month; they're convinced this is quote unquote the next big thing, and they want it out for Christmas. They even talked Dad into doing a podcast about it, although what they really want is for him to go on one of the morning shows and demo it.” He shook his head in disbelief. “I think he's actually considering it. R&D locked up the project months ago; they won't even give _me_ a copy to bring home and test. I have to go there, and they _hover_. For God's sake, they treat me like an industrial spy, and it was my idea in the first place!” He had such an affronted look on his face that both Sid and Tommy started laughing at him.

“Fine. Be that way. Now, let's get a move on; Dad wants us there yesterday.”

**********

On the plane home, Tommy said to Sid, “I never wanted to do anything but play. But . . . I can kind of see the appeal of an ordinary job. Assuming I could work for Daniel.”

“I know; he makes everything look like fun. Not that I understand a quarter of what he talks about.”

“You got that right. Did you know that Simon has two master's degrees?”

Sid stared at him. “No. How do _you_ know that?”

“His biography is on the company website. Sid, aren't you ever curious? Don't you ever Google things?”

“Of course I do. I looked up _stronzo_. Just the other day, in fact.”

“All by yourself? Color me amazed.”

“Button it, Standish.”

“Yeah, yeah. So. College student in the house soon.”

“I know.” Sid was smiling so widely his cheeks hurt. “I can't believe it, to be honest.”

“I can. Well, I can't imagine going to CMU when I could go to Harvard, which is where he went three years ago; guess that tells us something about his priorities. Oh God: wipe that sappy look off your face.”

“No.”

“Christ. Listen, Sid: I'm gonna ask you a question. And I don't want you to answer it now. But think about it, and tell me later. Do you want me to find my own place in January? So you two can be alone?”

“Are we having this conversation again?” Sid complained. “I don't need to think about it. Look, Tommy: the only way I would want you to move out is if you want to. And I hope you don't want to. But it's your decision. I mean that a hundred percent. Okay?”

Tommy studied him. “I get that you mean it right now. If things change, though, you'll let me know?”

“Yes,” Sid said, with a considerable amount of asperity. “Now, can we talk about something else?”

“Sure. I been thinking about that passing thing we've been working on forever.”

“What about it?” Grumpily. No matter how hard they tried, they couldn't get it to work right.

“There has to be a way to fix the timing. But forget about that for now. I was thinking . . . what if we brought Geno in on it?” He turned his napkin over, and drew a rough sketch. “What do you think?”

Sid stared at the napkin, and then at Tommy.

“That is . . . brilliant.” He laughed. “I'll ask him tomorrow. And we can try it out after morning skate the next day. Hey, give me your pen. Look: we could also. . . .”

**********

Life became a blur for Sid. Practices. Home games. Road trips. Those were no different than previous years. Except that they were. Because of his therapy. Which had a lot in common with the way the season was going. Wins and losses. Using his Daniel-approved laptop, he created a secret spreadsheet to track his therapy stats. Since he told no one, including Andrew, about it, he was completely, and brutally, honest.

It wasn't . . . terrible, he decided. Maybe not as much progress as he could have hoped for, but certainly a lot more than if he'd done nothing. He tried to be optimistic. Sometimes he even succeeded.

Try as he might, however, he could not find a correlation between the way he played and his progress in therapy. Well, he couldn't find a correlation he liked—since he did not approve of randomness. At all. He'd win a game, and feel good about his OCD task of the day. And then he'd fail at it. Or, he might dread even trying to make his therapeutic goal—and then sail through it, only to lose a game the same night. It was very frustrating.

He even brought the topic up with Tolliver. Who pointed out that randomness was a fact of life. She then assigned him the task of choosing a ritual at random.

“Choose one of your lists. Count the number of items on it. Then, find one of those random number generators on the Internet. Whatever number comes up: that's what we'll work on next.”

If Sid had been in Halifax, he would have headed straight for the shower. As it was, he allowed himself to reinstate one of his small “comfort” routines for twenty-four hours.

He tried to evade the task, but he should have known better; at their next session, Tolliver warned him, “If you don't make an attempt at this, Sid, I will choose the list for you.”

“You are mean, cruel, and heartless,” Sid informed her.

“I am, aren't I?” she smiled.

“Okay. Let's make a deal. How about I choose the list, and I ask Andrew to choose something from it?”

“No. Well, perhaps. He can't choose a specific ritual, but he could run the random number generator for you, I suppose. Remember, Sid, confronting randomness is one of the main points of this exercise.”

“I hate randomness.”

“I know. That's the other point.”

**********

“Time,” Sid announced to Andrew over the phone, “is a paradox.”

“How philosophical of you. What does that mean?”

“Lots of things. First of all, we're in different time zones. We're talking to each other at the same time, but also at different times.”

“This is true.”

“Plus, the days are getting much shorter. But my days are getting much longer. If I'm not on the ice, I'm doing media. If I'm not doing that, I'm Skyping with Tolliver. Which, depending on the day, is sometimes maybe worse. I am fucking exhausted.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It's not your fault. And you must be too. Are you ever coming home? And by home, I mean Pittsburgh. I miss you.”

“I miss you too. Soon. I hope. In my defense, most of this fall's schedule was planned and set in stone before we even met. But . . . all right, I'll be honest: I didn't realize that I crammed so much into these four months. I haven't been back to Boston in . . . weeks, it seems. I had to ask Mom and Dad to ship me some more clothes. And boy, was that a mistake. What is this fascination that the entire world seems to have with my underwear? What is wrong with wearing white Hanes briefs? You'd think that was a criminal act, the way people carry on about it. Mom went out and bought me all this new stuff, and it's terrible. It's tight and it's uncomfortable.”

“Well, I'm sorry for the uncomfortable part. The tight part? I could get behind that.”

“Usually, my underwear is long gone by the time you get behind me. But I take your point. Oh wait: I just repeated myself.”

They both laughed. But then Andrew sighed.

“I really, really, _really_ want to see you. Need to see you. To continue your discourse on time: we can measure time. But we can't seem to harness it. I'm hating that scheduling program; it never tells me what I want to hear, which is that I have enough time to make it to you and back. If it tells me to change my parameters one more time, I'm going to get violent.”

“If you do, please get somebody to record it. I need some new material. For my spank bank.” He grinned at the peals of laughter coming out of his phone.

“Where in God's name did you learn that charming little phrase?”

“From Tommy. Of course. For somebody who never seems to have sex, he certainly knows a lot about it. How's the scheduling business going these days, anyway?”

“Sidney, it's remarkable. The super-duper, hideously expensive, custom-built database, limited edition? Sold out in 48 hours. SCE can't keep up with the demand; Dad's actually doing some of the custom programming himself. Not that he minds. And the music player? Oh, excuse me, the 'official music player of the NHL?'” He snorted. “Out of stock. Mom's making some, uh, motivational visits to the factories even as we speak. You would not _believe_ the bonuses she's offering people: the workers, not the managers. And speaking of: she told me how much my bonus was likely to be; I nearly shat myself.”

“ _You_ get a bonus?”

“I do. My parents are insisting, since both products were my ideas. And you know what I'm going to do with it?”

“What?”

“I'm going to take the two of us on a trip. Would you like to cruise the Mediterranean next summer? I'd love to show you Italy. And Greece. We could go ashore during the day, and spend our nights on the water. Does the idea appeal?”

“It does. For sure. But . . . I know I'm whining, but I want to see you now. Next summer is too far away. For that matter, January is too far away.”

“I know.” There was a brief silence. “Sidney, may I call you back? Say, in ten minutes?”

“Sure.”

It was more like twenty minutes; Sid was beginning to fret.

“Sorry; I had to make two calls instead of one. All right, Sidney: I just abased myself to my grandparents. And pled exhaustion. Which isn't even a lie—perhaps a slight overstatement. Perhaps. As a result: with their blessing, I am absolved from attending Thanksgiving. Mom and Dad aren't exactly happy about it, but they understand. So, I'm coming there. Assuming you don't mind. And with one condition.”

“Of course I don't mind! What's the condition?”

“I don't want to go anywhere. Well, if I'm there when you're playing, of course I'll go to the games. And possibly even out with the guys, should that happen. But no parties. No dinners out. I want a low-key holiday at your house. With you. And Tommy, of course. And perhaps Zhenya. And whoever else is around and at loose ends. But casual. I want peace and quiet. Except when we're in bed—which is where I want to be at least forty percent of the time I'm there. Possibly more. Agreed?”

“Agreed. Andrew Singleton, you're singing my song.”

“I'd rather be screaming your name, but soon enough. I will plug my new parameters into the scheduler as soon as we get off the phone; I'll let you know when I'm due to arrive.”

“Uh, Thanksgiving's not for a little while, you know.”

“I do know that. But I want you to start making plans; I already am. Want a preview?”

“You don't even have to ask.”

“Let's save that for when I'm there.”

**********

Sid was standing in front of the hotel elevator with Flower. “Will this fucking thing ever get here?” he complained under his breath. They'd just lost to the Devils, and he wanted to bite something.

The chime sounded, and he muttered, “Finally.” He stood to the side and let the people off. Then, out of nowhere, something shoved him from behind. He stumbled inside, whirled around . . . and saw Andrew waving to Flower as he hit the “Door Close” button.

“Sasha . . . what the fuck?”

“What floor? Sidney, what floor?”

“Twelve.”

Andrew stabbed it.

“I couldn't wait until Thanksgiving. And if there weren't a security camera up there, I _wouldn't_ wait. I flew 1700 miles for a few hours; call me stupid, but I had to see you. And if this fucking elevator doesn't get us there soon, I will lose it. I can barely contain myself, Sidney; it's a medical condition.”

The doors opened, and Sid grabbed Andrew's arm.

“Come on. The end of the hall.”

They were both practically running when Sid yanked Andrew to a stop.

“Here.” He pulled out his key card.

“Put it in. Put it in, for God's sake!” And then Andrew realized what he'd said. He started snorting, and shoved his fist in his mouth to muffle the sound.

Sid pushed open the door. And then pushed Andrew inside. “Can I at least get some lube first?”

“You've got 30 seconds.” Andrew started to strip.

They were on the bed in 25.

“Just so you know, Sidney,” Andrew was already hard, and snatching the lube, he shoved two fingers up his ass, “this is not the time for finesse.”

“Not a fucking chance,” Sid agreed, dousing his dick. Andrew lifted his legs. Sid braced himself, aimed, and pushed inside. They both moaned. Loudly.

Sid set a bruising pace, and Andrew matched his every thrust. He started pumping his own cock, and Sid batted his hand away.

“No fucking way. You don't get to come yet.” He sped up, and, starting to pant, he ground out, “That load . . . is going . . . in me. The minute I . . . come, you . . . fucking roll me over . . . and fucking drill me!”

Andrew's eyes sliced into Sid's. “You want me to flood your ass? Fine. And then I'll eat out every single fucking drop before I fuck you again!”

“You . . . promise?”

Andrew nodded. And, roaring, Sid exploded.

Less than a minute later, Andrew's cock invaded. He spread himself over Sid's back and used his legs to squeeze Sid's ass together. He rabbited in and out, and, stretching his torso, bit Sid on the shoulder.

“Fucking hell!”

Andrew shifted his position, and started pummeling Sid's prostate. Impossibly, Sid was already getting hard again.

“Drop it,” he begged. “Drop your load. Come on, Andrew, fucking fill me up!”

With a shouted imprecation in some unknown language, Andrew obeyed.

Somehow, Sid found it in himself to allow Andrew about a minute to recoup, before he rolled Andrew off of him, straddled his torso, and ordered, “Get that fucking tongue of yours up my ass! Now!”

After they'd both come twice, they had to take a break. Which they began by kissing. Slowly. The tenderness they'd been forgoing in favor of blind, aching need, came out. In full force.

“I love you, Sasha,” Sid said. “More and more every day.” He darted in for another kiss. “Even when I don't see you for weeks, my love just grows.”

“I know what you mean,” Andrew murmured. “It's the same with me. _Mon oie_ , I told you months ago, how _necessary_ you had become to me. Truth to tell, I didn't know the half of it.” He rubbed his nose against Sid's. “I can no more imagine a life without you than I can imagine a life without music in it.”

Sid hesitated for a second, and then pulled Andrew's head closer. He whispered, directly into his ear, “Here's a secret. Lately . . . I've been able to imagine a life after hockey. As long as I have you.”

**********

Andrew groaned, rolled over, and gave Sid a kiss. “I'm afraid I can't take this into overtime.” He pushed the covers back. “I concede; the win is yours, Captain Crosby.”

“I kind of think we both won. Which is one of the really great things about sex.” Sid stood up. “Want company in the shower?”

“I'd love some. As long as we don't get carried away; I really do have to leave.”

Sid stopped in mid-step. “You know, I feel kind of cheap right now.”

“For God's sake, why?”

Sid gestured. “We're in a hotel room. We just spent two hours having sex. And now you're rushing out. Leaving me here.” He affected what he hoped was a wounded look. “I'm just your bit on the side, aren't I?”

“Oh, of course. Thanks for reminding me; I'll leave the money on the nightstand. Although—does this mean I'm Richard Gere now? Taylor will be so disillusioned.”

Sid snickered. “She'd have to think up new material. So—let's not tell her. Things were bad enough when _you_ were the hooker.”

**********

When Andrew finished lacing up his shoes, he checked his pockets for his wallet and phone.

“I guess I'm all set. May I have a hug?”

“You may. You can even have two.”

“Umm. I don't want to leave.”

“I don't want you to. It was so incredible to see you.”

“Likewise. I couldn't stand it one more minute.” He stole a kiss. “All right. Let me go; I'll see you next week. I'm arriving Tuesday; did you get me a ticket for the game?”

“I did. Sorry I can't pick you up.”

“Don't worry about it. All right, Sidney. I love you.”

“I love you too.”

Andrew bent down to pick up his coat. “What's this?”

“What?”

Andrew started laughing helplessly. He handed Sid a piece of paper. It read, “You need to work on your stamina.”

Sid rolled his eyes. “Didn't I tell you this would happen?”

 


	30. Chapter 30

Sid was pacing. Had been, for some time.

“Would you please friggin' calm down?”

Sid didn't even bother to respond.

“Sid. You're driving me nuts. Stop it!”

Sid just scowled. And checked his watch. “He should have been here by now.”

“There's this thing. It's called traffic. Ever hear of it?”

“You can lose the sarcasm.”

“Sid. He's a grown man. He knows how to drive a car. Now, sit the fuck down. Or I'm calling your doctor and staging an intervention.”

“You can try. I already told her that you're a pathological liar. With abandonment issues. And definitely bipolar.”

“Where's your medical degree from? Wossamotta U?”

Sid barked out a laugh. “Where do you come up with this shit?”

“Hey, that's Bullwinkle! It's a classic!”

Sid allowed himself to be distracted. “I always liked Mr. Peabody and Sherman better.”

“Yeah, well, maybe we can do a reboot of the whole show. I can see it now: Fractured Fairy Tales, starring Sid and Tommy. Ace can be the narrator.”

This time, Sid's laugh was genuine.

“Now, plant your ass; I'll make you some more tea. Maybe herbal. Why the fuck are you so jumpy?”

“I have no idea.” Sid sank down on his stool. “It just . . . doesn't seem real to me. I won't believe it 'til he's actually here. And moved in. And living here. For more than three months!”

Tommy turned the kettle on. “And let me guess: you're already planning on how to keep him here.”

“Of course I am. Not that I'll admit that to anybody but you.”

“Do you honestly think that everybody on the team isn't completely aware of what you want?”

“You are so full of it, Tommy. The only person I've said anything to is you. Just now. So, unless you're capable of sending telepathic signals, I'm pretty sure you're wrong.”

“Sid. Sid, Sid, Sid. Do you really think that you need to _say_ anything? For somebody who reveals nothing to the press, your face never shuts up in private.”

Since this was not the first time Sid had heard this claim, he just grunted. Especially since he was pretty sure that, at least where Andrew was concerned, it was true. He then looked appraisingly at Tommy.

“Since you're so smart, and since you seem to have your finger on the pulse of the whole team, tell me something. Most of the guys seem to like Andrew a lot, right?”

“Hello? Hockey name?”

“I know.” Sid still flushed with pleasure when he remembered that day. “And they never seem to mind if he comes out with us after a game—and I don't think it's because he always buys more than his share of drinks.”

“I don't either. Not that that hurts.”

“Well, no. But . . . I don't even know if Andrew would want to, but now that he's going to be living here for months, there's a chance that he could come out with us a lot more often. Which, of course, I would like. A lot. But . . . I don't know about anybody else. I mean, nobody really minds if somebody's wife or girlfriend comes once in a while. But if they started coming a lot, I think it might get awkward. And I for sure don't want to cause any more problems. But there's a part of me that thinks that the guys wouldn't mind if it was Andrew. What do you think?”

“First off, I'm going to repeat myself. Hockey name? That means something, Sid. None of the wives have one, do they? And I know none of the girlfriends do. Plus . . . the guys _like_ Andrew. They liked him at first for you, and now they like him for himself. As well as for you. And also, and this is important, for how he treats you. Takes care of you, whatever. I think every single member of the team thanked him for getting you into therapy for your OCD.”

“They did?” Sid was surprised. And . . . touched.

Tommy nodded. “Yup. And that's not even the only thing. After the first playoff game last season? Even the guys who'd been kind of lukewarm about him were sold; Mario's description of what Burakovsky looked like when he saw Ace was priceless. And was the only reason he didn't get pounded into pulp in the third. Geno lost no time at all reporting Ace's threat that he'd throw Ovi out if he upset you.” His grin was mischievous. “And I _may_ have mentioned how he hung up on your dad. To one or two people. And just to put icing on the cake—which I know you like—Flower, who's been singing Ace's praises practically since day one anyway, nearly ruptured himself telling everybody who would listen about how Ace flew halfway across the country just to give you the fuck we all knew you needed. Jesus fucking Christ, you'd have thought it was Flower's idea. He was like a proud father—if you forget about the fact that probably no father wants to think about his kid getting a booty call.”

Sid winced. “Please. Let's not talk about fathers. But since you brought that up: are you finally ready to tell me who made that report card?”

“Nope. But I will tell you—again—it wasn't me. It wasn't even my idea. Since I know better than anybody else on the team how fucking wrong it was. You and Ace with more stamina? The world would never recover.”

Sid burst out laughing. “Neither would we; the two of us would probably combust. You're so funny, Tommy. When are you going to try and get a boyfriend?”

“I'm working on it.”

Sid's jaw dropped. “You are?”

“Yup. I don't got my hopes up too much. But we'll see.”

“Who is it? Anybody I know?”

“Yeah, it is. And I'm not telling you.”

Sid opened his mouth to start bitching, but Tommy interrupted him.

“Yet. I'm not telling you _yet_ , Sid.” His mouth twisted a little. “I don't want to jinx things, you know?”

Sid narrowed his eyes. “Are you just saying that to shut me up? Or do you actually mean it?”

“Both. Okay, look: I hooked up with somebody at the awards last year. The night of Ace's concert. And . . . it was great. Fun. Easy. So we did it again. And then we talked on and off over the summer. Met up for a couple of days before training camp started. We got a definite spark between us. And he seems to feel that way too. But . . . it's long distance. Which I know you know all about, but it's different for us: we both play; Ace's schedule is at least a little more flexible. And I don't know if I want to take the plunge with somebody I'm only gonna see a handful of times eight or nine months of the year. You understand?”

“I do. That sucks. And spare me the obvious joke. Seriously, I'm glad you met someone. But it sucks if you really like him and you can't see him.”

“It does. I mean, there is the phone. And Skype. But it ain't the same. Still, I'm not ruling anything out yet.” He sighed. “He plays in the western conference. And we haven't played his team yet this season. When we do? That's going to be a big deal. A test, maybe. 'Cause one of us is gonna win, and the other one is gonna lose. And how we handle that?”

Sid winced.

“Yeah. The litmus test, as Daniel said about something or other when we was painting the kitchen. Not to mention: can _I_ handle mixing up the personal with the professional? I got no idea, to be honest.”

“Well, I wish you luck. Seriously. And I promise I won't bug you about who it is. Well, after I say this: give me a hint. A really small hint. One hint, and I'll shut up about it.”

“You? Really? This I got to see.”

Sid scowled at him.

“Let me think . . . okay, here's your hint: you said hello to him at the awards.”

“Oh, come on! I said hello to probably five hundred people!”

“You said a really small hint. Reneging already?”

“No! It's just that . . . okay, fine,” Sid huffed.

Laughing, Tommy clapped him on the shoulder. “You took it like a little soldier. So, here's your reward—another hint. I've heard people say—and you heard too, you were there at the time—that he's sort of religious. In a way. And maybe he is; we've never talked about it. But I got to tell you, Sid: in bed? He ain't no saint!”

Sid was still laughing when the door opened.

“He's here!” He practically ran out of the room.

“Well, hello there, Captain Crosby!”

“Hey! Put me down!”

“Not until I get a kiss hello.”

“Mmmm. I always forget how strong you are. And I can't believe you're here! Do we need to get your stuff? Tommy, come help!”

“I don't need help; I brought it in already. Tommy, how are you?”

“I'm good. Now that nervous Nelly here can calm down.”

“Fuck you. Andrew, you can't be serious.”

“It's difficult, but I do manage sometimes. What are you talking about?”

“This is all you brought?” Sid felt . . . dismayed.

“With me, yes. The rest is coming.”

Oh. “When?”

“Soon, I imagine. They said they might stop for lunch; I, on the other hand, pressed on, since I knew my favorite meal was probably counting the minutes 'til I arrived.” Andrew leered, and dragged Sid in for another kiss. A lengthy one.

“There,” he said, stepping back. “That will have to hold us until they leave. And I should warn both of you: from all evidence, they're Bruins fans.”

Sid shared a confused look with Tommy. “What are you talking about? You can't mean your parents.”

“I certainly don't. Do you think for one minute I'd ask them to help me move? Not that they wouldn't do it; in fact, they offered. But no.” There was a rumbling outside. “Ah, they're here. Remember: no NDA is perfect.” And with that, he opened the door and walked outside. Where a purple truck was pulling up. A large purple truck.

Sid started to beam. Which Andrew, of course, noticed.

“Don't worry, Sidney. Even though I brought a moving van, I have not yet turned into a lesbian.”

**********

Sid loved, loved, loved having Andrew living with him. He smiled all the time. He smiled before morning skate. He smiled during morning skate. He wandered around the locker room, smiling. He ignored any and all chirps about him (although he did wonder where the hell Tanger had learned the word 'vacuity'—until he decided that he'd probably misheard him). He increased the wattage of his smile as they drove home for lunch (ignoring Tommy, who was calling him a Stepford Wife), even though he knew Andrew wouldn't be there. Because he was at CMU. Where he'd be for three solid months. While living with Sid.

Sid figured he'd probably smile for every minute of those three months. After his first face-off that night though, he amended that to _almost_ every minute, because there was an exception to every rule, and obviously, his exception was named Claude Giroux.

Sid was blindingly, deliriously, happy. A fact that he did not hesitate to announce to Taylor. And his mom. And even his father, although he ascribed it to the streak the Pens were having, since clearly, a rule could definitely have two exceptions to it, if the two exceptions were never in the same place at the same time.

He had a very interesting exchange during his session with Tolliver after Andrew had been living in Pittsburgh for about a week.

“You've made good progress lately, Sid. Tell me: how much do you think is due to your own hard work, and how much is due to the fact that Andrew is living with you?”

Sid kind of wished he'd been able to hide that fact from her. But of course, there was no way he could have. Or should have.

“It's probably both,” he said honestly, after thinking about it for a minute. “I mean, Andrew hasn't helped me with anything. I didn't even tell him any real specifics about the tape ritual I was working on. He always asks how things are going, but he leaves it to me to decide how much I want to share. But . . . there's no denying that I'm happier with him here, and being happy makes it a little easier to work on things with you. I'm not implicating him or anything, right? That's not really OCD.”

“Not at all. It's human. Unfortunately, the reverse is also true. As I'm sure you know, when you're unhappy, it's easier to give in to the compulsions. And as much as I don't want to spoil your mood, you might do well to consider how you'll feel when Andrew moves back to Boston. You did say this move was temporary, correct?”

“That's the theory. But . . . look, I know I shouldn't say this to you, but I'm kind of afraid to even talk about this in case I jinx it. So, to save you the trouble of making me talk about it, I will.”

She laughed. “Good job.”

“Well, thanks. Anyway: we had kind of an argument before Andrew moved down here. He wanted to sound-proof the room he's going to be using for his studio. And I told him no, because I like hearing him sing. Plus, it's an inconvenience, and it's messy, and it's expensive. But he insisted. I mean, really insisted. To be honest, I've never seen him so determined. So I gave in. And the look on his face when I did . . . well, it made me . . . uh, hope, we'll go with that . . . that even though he's maybe not ready to admit it yet, Andrew doesn't want this move to be temporary either.”

“How did he look?”

“Like he was afraid he'd given himself away. See, his argument was that he hates inconveniencing anybody. But since he knows our schedule, he also knows that he could just practice when we're out; that way, the only person he'd inconvenience would be himself. Which is what he would want.”

Tolliver nodded in understanding.

Sid started to grin. “But the clincher is: even though he's loaded, he's also kind of cheap about some stuff. There's just no way he'd spend over $10,000 to sound-proof a room for only three months. He doesn't even like to get room service.”

This time, Tolliver laughed. “Well, it certainly sounds like you're on to something then. Listen, Sid: I think we should take advantage of your mood and push things a little. Let's consider the second-line rituals, shall we?”

“Ugh. Let's not and say we did.”

“It doesn't work that way. You know as well as I do that often, the first step is the most difficult. If you're routinely achieving success with the second line, it makes it much more unlikely that you'll fall back to failing with the fourth line. I truly hope things work out the way you want them to. But let's try and make as much progress as we can in the next three months—in case his stay does end up not being permanent.”

Sid stared at her. “Wait. Isn't that implicating him?”

“Not really. It's making his presence part of the solution. Not part of the problem.” She paused for a second, and then gave him a sly look. “And I would be astonished—not to mention, incredulous—if you haven't made that very same argument to yourself already.”

Sid could feel his face starting to flush.

Tolliver laughed again. “Sometimes, Sid, the pragmatic approach to victory is the best one. Not always, but sometimes.”

**********

Sid sat in his seat in the bar glumly staring into space. And trying not to stare at Andrew. Who was having a very animated conversation. With Geno. And Flower. And Nealer. And pretty much everybody else on the team. Except for him. And Tommy, of course. At least he had company in his fall from favor.

“How much longer?” he asked his co-offender out of the side of his mouth.

“I got no idea. Might be soon, though. I think I saw his eyes look over here. Just for a second.”

“He's going to yell at us. Again. And we'll apologize. Again. And then everything will be fine.”

“You're fucking delusional.”

“I didn't believe it either,” Sid admitted. “Tommy, I don't know if I can take one more minute of this deep freeze routine. If I could just get him to acknowledge me—even for a second—then I bet he'd get over it.”

Openly skeptical, Tommy asked, “And how're you gonna do that?”

“I don't know. I've seen him angry before, and he doesn't usually . . . oh. That's it.”

He stood up. “Come on.” He walked around to the end of the table where Andrew was sitting, and raised his voice.

“Hey. Guys. Listen up for a minute.”

He snuck a glance at his boyfriend. Whose eyebrows were currently vacillating between interest and dismissal. Well, it was a start.

“Okay. I have to tell you all something. I fucked up big time today.”

“ _We_ fucked up big time today,” Tommy corrected.

Half the guys started chirping them, and the other half started asking Andrew what had happened; clearly, everybody who was Russian or French-Canadian had noticed the arctic conditions currently impacting the hockey-playing residents of c _hez_ Crosby.

“When we went home for lunch, there was this incredible smell in the kitchen. Where there was a big pot of chicken soup sitting on the stove; I can't even tell you how good it smelled. And when I looked inside the pot, I was just . . . mesmerized. This was the chicken soup every pot of chicken soup wanted to be.” Aha! There was a definite twitch there.

Heartened, Sid went on, “So I said to Tommy, 'God, this looks wonderful!'”

“No, you didn't,” Tommy corrected; “you said, 'Fuck, this looks wonderful.'”

Sid waved this detail away. “It's the same thing. God invented fucking.” This time, he got at least a third of a curving lip; this was working!

“So then, Sid says, 'Wasn't it nice of Andrew to make this for us?'”

“And Tommy said, 'For sure.' So, we got a couple of bowls. That soup was, without a doubt, the best fucking soup I've ever had. The chicken wasn't tough, or stringy.”

“The carrots weren't mushy.”

“There was just the right amount of parsley.”

“And some thyme: fresh, of course.”

Pretty much every Pen was laughing—at them, with them, whatever—by now.

“And just a hint of garlic.”

“And something else. And we couldn't pin down what it was.”

“So,” Sid said sheepishly, “we had some more, trying to figure it out.”

“'Cause nothing makes absolutely delicious soup taste even better than having a puzzle to solve.”

“And we had just decided that it had to be fresh ginger . . .”

“Or maybe lemon . . .”

“When Andrew walked in the kitchen.”

“And we said, 'This is delicious!' And Ace says. . . .”

Sid jabbed his elbow into Tommy's side. “We'll just skip over that part.”

“No!” protested the entire team, led by Geno, that fucking traitor. They started chanting, “Tell us! Tell us!”

Sid looked at Andrew. Whose entire face was saying, “Well?” Sid sighed. Deeply.

“You were absolutely right. We were cretinous baboons . . .”

“With no manners at all . . .”

“And since all we're fit for . . .”

“Is to eat and shit . . .”

“We should be kept in a cage . . .”

“And play with ourselves . . .”

“Until the moon turns green.”

Nealer was rolling on the floor, howling. At least he was the only one on the floor. More importantly, Andrew was nodding. And smirking. Fully.

“So this is our way of telling you, Ace, that we're sorry.”

“We didn't mean to eat the entire pot of soup.”

“That unbelievably wonderful . . . “

“Luscious . . .”

“Tempting . . .“

“Ambrosial . . .”

“Plutonic ideal . . .”

Sid jabbed him again. “That's Platonic.”

Tommy jabbed him back. “I know that, asshole! I was making a joke! I meant, out of this world.”

“Oh. Sorry. Where were we?”

“Plutonic ideal. Jesus!”

“You know, that's actually pretty good.”

“Thanks.”

“Anyway: we're sorry we ate the whole pot of the soup you made for all three of us.”

“'Specially since you made it 'cause you think you're getting a cold.”

“And if there's anything that we can do . . .”

“To make it up to you . . .”

“Even if it involves more public shaming . . .”

“And groveling; Sid's great at groveling.”

“But please don't be mad at us anymore.”

Andrew was laughing openly at this point. He turned to the guys. “Should we vote on it?”

“No!” Sid and Tommy yelled.

“Yes!” Everybody else countered.

Andrew considered. “Actually, I suppose that could be construed as cruel and unusual punishment. Which I believe is against the law in this country. So . . . all right. Tommy, I forgive you.”

“Yes!” Tommy made a fist pump.

“Hey! What about me?”

“You . . . perhaps. Your partner in crime there says you're great at groveling. I'm not entirely sure on what he bases that, but I believe I'd like to see for myself.” He stood up. And crooked his finger. “Perhaps an hour or so of you on your knees will do the trick.”

Sid bounded over to the tune of assorted jeers and catcalls. Andrew gave a jaunty wave.

“Good night, everybody!”

**********

Sid peeked into the bedroom. He'd tried to be quiet, but. . . .

“Did I wake you up?”

“No,” Andrew croaked. “What are you doing home? It's the middle of the night.”

Sid dropped his bag, went over to the bed, and dropped a kiss on Andrew's forehead. “The forecasts were all snow, snow, snow. So we flew back after the game instead of tomorrow morning. How are you feeling?”

“Wretched.” He coughed.

“You sound terrible.”

“Thank you _so_ much. There's nothing a singer likes to hear better than that. _Stronzo._ ”

“Look on the bright side: at least you're not singing right now.”

“That, _mon oie_ , is cold comfort.” He coughed again, and then cleared his throat. And then got out of bed, walked into the bathroom, and, after he'd spat several times, gargled.

“Sorry about that.”

“Don't apologize. I'm really sorry you're still sick. Maybe you should go to the doctor.”

“I probably should. Although I doubt there's anything he could do. And to think that I went to all of the trouble of getting a flu shot this year, too.” He put on his robe. “You should go to bed. Or unpack and go to bed.”

“Where are you going?”

“To make myself some tea. With lemon and honey. And maybe some whiskey. Would you like some?”

“No thanks. I'm wiped.”

“Well, go to bed then.”

“You'll come back up?”

“I will.” He cleared his throat again. “I'll try not to wake you. If you need a lullaby, you'll have to resort to the music player; I doubt you'd find the sound of a croaking frog very restful.”

“Give me a kiss.”

“Sidney, I'm all diseased.” But Andrew kissed his cheek lightly. And then patted it.

“Get some rest. Love you.”

“Love you, Sasha.”

**********

Sid walked into the kitchen the next morning and looked around.

“Morning, Sid.”

“Morning.” He picked up his tea and tested it. Still too hot.

“Where's Andrew?”

Tommy gestured. “He left you a note. He's still sick, I take it; I heard him coughing every time I woke up.”

“Yeah.” Sid picked up the note. 

> Gone to the doctor. I should be home tonight, unless I get snowed in. There's plenty of stuff for supper, so don't wait for me. Love you best.

It took Sid a minute to figure out that the doctor was probably in Boston. He shook his head. And smiled a little; only the best for his tenor.

**********

Sid jumped up when he heard the door open. And then he heard. . . . He started grinning.

Andrew appeared, with his parents right behind him. He smiled tiredly. “Hey there.”

The grin slid right off of Sid's face. “What's wrong?”

Even Andrew's eyebrow-raise was off-kilter. “Who said . . . ?”

“Don't even bother trying to lie. Sasha, what's wrong? What did the doctor say?”

Andrew sagged. And held his arms out. And clutched Sid in a vise-like grip.

Sid looked over Andrew's shoulder. Both Daniel and Elisabeth looked . . . somber; Sid's heart actually clenched.

“Hello, my boy.” They moved forward. And put their arms around both Sid and their son.

“Sidney, my dear, I'm afraid Sasha got some bad news today.”

“Potentially bad news, Lis.”

She shook her head. “No, Daniel. Don't try to dress it up. The news was bad; it's the outcome that's uncertain.”

Sid was about three seconds away from a major meltdown. When Andrew raised his head.

“Where's Tommy?”

“At the movies.” Was that . . . relief on his face?

“Good. I . . . needed to be alone with you. To tell you. . . .” His eyes welled up.

Sid forced his voice to be gentle. “Sasha. What's wrong? Tell me, sweetheart.”

A tear or two escaped. “Oh Sidney. I have . . . a growth.” He gestured towards his throat. “Here.” He threw himself back at Sid and started crying in deep, broken, exhalations.

Sid patted his back. And met his parents' eyes, which were full of tears as well. Daniel moved to put his arm around his wife. And Elisabeth . . . who was perhaps the strongest person Sid had ever met . . . looked terrified.

Sid summoned his homeland. He kissed Andrew on the temple. Squeezed him tightly. And then stepped back, keeping one hand on Andrew's arm.

“Come on, Sasha. Let's sit down, all of us.” He gestured. “We'll all have a drink. And you can tell me what we're going to do.”

“All right.”

As Andrew pulled his handkerchief out to blow his nose, Sid watched his mother close her eyes briefly. And then exchange a glance with her husband.

Sid would have paid a great deal of money to know what they were silently saying to one another. And later, when he had the time, he would try to figure out why she looked . . . relieved.

But right now, it was Andrew that was important. More important. Most important. After all, Sid thought inanely, it was a day that ended in y.

“Elisabeth? Could you make us something? Maybe . . . something soothing?”

She cleared her throat. And visibly donning some of her usual composure, said, “I'd be happy to, my dear.”

She busied herself with that, while Daniel wandered out—presumably to the bathroom. Andrew wiped his nose again.

“Let me go get a clean handkerchief,” he said; “this one is . . . not exactly up to the task any more.” His voice was a little husky, but had some of his usual humor in it.

“ _I_ will go get it. You sit down. Please, Sasha. You've had a hard day. And remember: I get to do things for you too.”

“All right. Actually, though: let's both go. I want to change my clothes. We'll be right back, Mom.” Sid took his hand and they left the kitchen.

They didn't talk on their way upstairs, but when they got to the bedroom, Andrew closed the door and looked directly at Sid.

“There's something I have to say to you right now. And you will no doubt think it's foolish of me. But . . . I have to. So. Sidney, I'm sorry I didn't tell you first. Or, rather, I wanted to tell all three of you at the same time. But . . . I was a little . . . well, let's say distraught . . . and Uncle Phil called Mom and Dad. And . . . well, things just got away from me. But I am sorry. I hope you're not too upset.”

Sid opened his mouth . . . and then started laughing. And he couldn't stop. He sank down on the bed, while Andrew just stared at him.

“Oh my fucking God!” Sid managed to get out. “No, Andrew, I'm not upset that you didn't tell me first. You're . . . insane! To think that for even one minute! Even _I'm_ not that competitive.”

Andrew's mouth quirked. He sat down next to Sid and took his hand again. “In my defense: I'm not exactly at my best right now.”

“Probably not. But . . . in the interests of clarity, as you like to say: I will admit that yes, I am upset. By the news. And I want every single detail. And then, maybe I'll be able to figure out exactly how upset I should be. But call me clairvoyant or something: I'd be willing to bet I'm not as upset as you. And I'm glad you had your parents there. Really, really glad. _I'm_ sorry I wasn't there with you.”

“Well, I wish you had been. Now, I mean. Now that I know that I don't have the flu. Oh, fuck a duck; I'm not making any sense.”

Sid leaned over and kissed him lightly. “I know what you mean. Come on: get changed. Maybe . . . you should have a quick shower. Take it from me: hydrotherapy works wonders.”

Andrew laughed. Actually laughed. And Sid's heart sang a little.

“Good idea; I think I will. And then a drink. And then . . . Christ, I'm starved; I've had next to nothing all day—not that I was hungry at all, earlier. But now I am.”

“What do you want? There's like half a chicken left; I saved it for you.”

“Thanks, but. . . .” He hesitated.

“What?”

“You know what I would love?”

“What?”

“Pizza. Extra cheese. And pepperoni. With mushrooms.”

“Who are you, and what have you done with my boyfriend?”

“I know. But pizza is my comfort food.”

“Then I'll go order it. Now, hit the showers, Ace.”

Andrew didn't even roll his eyes. “I will. Thanks, Sidney.”

Sid mock-scowled. “You don't have to thank me. But . . . you're welcome.”

Before he went down the stairs, he took a few deep breaths. You can do this, he told himself. You can be strong. You have to be strong. Sasha needs you.

**********

“So, tell me everything.”

“Unfortunately, there isn't that much to tell. Yet. I went to see Uncle Phil. He looked down my throat. He said, 'Holy shit!'” Andrew paused. “I'll be able to tease him forever about that.” His grin, though a shadow of its normal self, nonetheless seemed genuine.

“I assumed that I had strep or something. Something normal. Well, normally abnormal. And then he told me he'd never seen anything like it. And I asked him to define 'it.' And when he said the word 'growth,' well. . . .” Andrew shuddered. “I kind of lost it; it's a good thing I'm his favorite nephew. So he got on the phone, and he called some of his colleagues, and he called Mom and Dad, and then he bundled me into his car and we went to Mass General. God knows how many favors he called in.

“And his colleagues—there were two of them in the room—were . . . concerned. And when Uncle Phil told them what I did for a living. . . .” Andrew's face changed, and Sid realized that his assumed calmness was a veneer exactly one thread thick; he grabbed Andrew's hand. “Well, let's just say they became even more concerned.” He swallowed. “And I suspect you can imagine my reaction. Which I managed to keep under control, for the most part.”

“I wish you would stop worrying about that, Sasha,” his father said, with some asperity.

“Daniel,” Sid said, summoning a little of his captain's voice, “have you never heard of defense mechanisms? Or coping strategies?” Daniel opened his mouth, but Sid didn't wait. “Of course you have. You're using some right now.”

Daniel snapped his mouth shut. Elisabeth nodded approvingly at Sid. Andrew . . . Andrew giggled.

“My hero. It would seem that I am not the only person in this relationship who can be fierce. Of course, we already knew that, didn't we, Mom and Dad? Ever since last Thanksgiving.”

“I apologize, Sasha. And Sidney,” Daniel saluted him with his drink, “you're quite correct. Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” Sid said politely.

This time, both Andrew and his mother laughed; even Daniel was grinning.

“So, what happened then?”

“Well, by then, Mom and Dad were there. So we all went into a conference room and talked about it. Fact: there's a growth. That's about all we know for sure. Questions, however, are in much greater supply. Is there more than one? What caused it or them? Actually, you know what? I'm going to stick with saying 'it.' Having one of these things is bad enough.

“To continue: how did it appear so quickly? I had a physical in the fall; Uncle Phil saw nothing then. This question concerned one of his colleagues the most, incidentally. It's possible it was there in the fall, but was so small as to be undetectable. Which raises the equally unpalatable question: if it was there then, how did it get so big so quickly? Sidney, you can actually feel it from the outside.” He bit his lip. And blinked several times.

“You don't have to talk about it now if you don't want to.”

“Oh, I rather think I do. Let me get it all out. Can it be removed? Is it cancerous? If I have to have treatment, either surgery or chemotherapy, what risks do I face? Are my . . . my vocal cords involved? Will I . . . still be able to sing?”

There was utter stillness in the room.

“For that matter, will I still be able to talk?” The tears were running down his cheeks now. “Or will I have to have one of those voice synthesizers installed and sound like a bad Darth Vader impersonation for the rest of my life? However long that is.”

Sid stood up and yanked Andrew into a hug. And then he said firmly, “I shouldn't have to remind you of this, Andrew, since I first heard it from you, but you do yourself no favors by dwelling on the negative. As you said to my father, just before you hung up on him, let's remember that healing is as much mental as it is physical. So, please don't go straight to the disaster scenarios, okay? Instead, how about we focus on the most immediate questions. Such as: what are the next steps? How do we go about getting some answers?”

Andrew pulled another handkerchief out of his pocket. “An excellent strategy, _mon oie_.” He then blew his nose, and, rather deliberately, honked.

Just then, the doorbell rang.

“That must be the pizza,” Sid said. “Hang on a second.”

It took more than a second, because Sid had to—wanted to—thank the driver for coming all the way to Sewickley. He was happy to sign an autograph, and he even thought he wouldn't have minded posing for a picture, but luckily, the driver didn't ask. He carried the boxes back into the kitchen.

“We might want to warm this up a little,” he said.

Andrew craned his neck and looked at the top box. “Isn't that . . . oh, Sidney. It's from where we had the party, isn't it?”

“It is. I know you like their pies.”

“Oh, I do. Give me a piece now; I don't care if it's lukewarm.”

Once everybody was settled, Andrew began again.

“Clearly, as you just said, Sidney, the most important thing to do is to get more information. Which means taking a closer look. Going in and finding out . . . well, if there are more of these things, and how many, and where. Fun stuff like that. And depending on any number of factors, they may choose to take samples to biopsy. Or . . . ,” his voice faltered for a second, “they might remove it. Or them. Immediately. In essence, they can't formulate a plan until they have a better sense of what they're dealing with.”

“That makes sense, I guess,” Sid said slowly. “And when would they do this?”

“As soon as possible. They drew about twenty vials of blood before we left. We're supposed to go back there tomorrow around 11, I think. Depending on the blood work, they said they might go in tomorrow afternoon.”

Sid's jaw dropped. “That soon?” Dread started creeping up his spine. “Andrew . . . you're talking about emergency surgery here. Why . . . ? What else . . . ?”

Andrew shrugged. And then pointed to himself—making, Sid realized after a second or two, their shorthand gesture for “wry face.”

“First of all, the top specialist in the country for this sort of thing is on the staff at Mass General. I know a couple of people personally— _very_ big names in opera, past and present—who've been treated by him. Successfully, I will add. Granted, their cases seem to have been less . . . complicated, let's say . . . than mine appears to be—at least, based on what I heard at the time. Secondly, all doctors are ghouls at heart. The thing in my throat is _ugly_ ; Uncle Phil's colleagues talked about how hideous it was in the most reverent tones imaginable. The surgeon practically bounded into the conference room, and very nearly rubbed his hands with glee once he'd taken a look.”

He got up to get himself another slice. “Anybody else?” He plopped a piece on his father's plate, deftly stealing a piece of sausage as he did so.

“Mmmm. And as for the third reason: well, I think I'll let Mom answer that.”

“Why, thank you, darling. I do enjoy talking about my triumphs.”

Sid had to grin at her. “What did you do?”

She winked at him. “Almost nothing at all. I merely excused myself from the conference room and called the hospital's CEO. And mentioned that Sasha might be a patient there. And that Daniel and I would appreciate anything that might be done in expediting the logistics of his treatment.” She paused. “I might have used the word 'grateful.' In fact, I'm almost certain I did.” She smiled. Slowly.

Daniel beamed at her. “Said CEO showed up very soon thereafter. Completely out of breath; he should take better care of himself. Not to put too fine a point on it, my boy, but both Lis' family and mine have been quite generous to the hospital for decades. As have we. And while ordinarily, I would never expect to reap a benefit from charity, under these circumstances . . . well. You know, Sidney, I consider myself to be a moral person. But . . . let's just say that I do tend to relax my scruples when the well-being of someone I love is involved. And I include every person in this room in that group.”

“Here, here!” Andrew said, raising his glass.

Sid ducked his head—in embarrassment, mostly, but also to hide the fact that he was getting perilously close to the end of his emotional fortitude.

When he thought he could control himself, he asked, maybe a little abruptly, “But why didn't you just stay in Boston? You should have called me, and I could have come there. And speaking of: I should call Mario.”

“I came because I needed to see you. To tell you what was going on in person. Mom and Dad came to support us. And why are you calling Mario?”

Sid looked at Andrew in disbelief. “To tell him I can't play tomorrow night. I'm going with you.”

Andrew shook his head. “No. You stay here and play.”

Reaching once again for his heritage, Sid said, “Andrew. I am going with you. I want to be there.”

“I know you do. Of course you do. But . . . oh Sidney.” Sid could see his eyes fill up again. “Mom? Dad? Would you mind? I need to talk to Sidney alone for a bit.”

“Of course, darling.” They stood up and walked out.

“Sidney.” He bit his lip. “This is so hard for me.” Then he squared his shoulders. “Maybe if I knew for sure that I'd be operated on tomorrow, I would accept. I know that part of me wants you with me.” He rubbed his hand over his eyes. “But I thought and thought about it on the plane, and I decided that there's something I want more. I need you to do something for me, Sidney.”

“Sasha, of course. I'll do anything. But what could be more important than being in Boston with you? What do you want?”

Andrew wiped his eyes again. “Sidney. I want you to stay here. I need you to play tomorrow night. And I'm not just saying that out of some absurd need to be selfless; it's actually quite selfish of me. You see—and you can never, ever tell Dr. Tolliver this—or Mom—but I'm afraid that if you don't play, things won't go well for me. I want you to play. For luck. And that way . . . if you do . . . then I'll be okay.” His voice caught on the last word. “I know it's irrational, but I need _something_ to hold onto. And for whatever reason, that's what my brain is telling me. You. On the ice.”

“But . . . what if we lose? Sasha, I can't do that! I can't take that risk; if we lose, I'll jinx everything!”

“No, you won't. Winning or losing doesn't matter in this context. You'll be on the ice. Where you're strongest. And I need you to be strong for me. For both of us. I'm not feeling strong right now, Sidney. I'm feeling helpless. Sidney, I'm so afraid!” He started to cry harder. “I know I'm asking too much of you, but. . . .” He covered his face with his hands.

Sid pulled him up and into his arms. “Don't cry, sweetheart. Come on. If that's what you need, I'll do it. I'll play tomorrow. I'll bring you luck. And if I get any points, they're for you.” He held Andrew as he shook. And ignored the tears falling down his own cheeks.

When he finally calmed down, Andrew reached into his pocket. “Gah,” he choked. Dropping his sodden handkerchief on the stool and snagging some napkins, he handed a couple to Sid and used the rest himself.

“Well, this is a first,” he said, a little thickly; “I have no more clean handkerchiefs.”

He exchanged a look with Sid—and then they both sank down on their stools. And laughed.

Daniel's voice called from down the hall, “Am I allowed back in?”

Sid looked at Andrew, who nodded.

“Sure,” Sid called back.

Daniel started talking almost before he was fully in the room. “I just spoke with Simon, Sasha, and he's making the arrangements now. You and your mother are flying out early tomorrow morning; I told Simon early, so Lis will have time to get changed. It was a very good idea of yours for us to keep some clothes at your place,” he said approvingly.

“Thanks. But what about you?”

“I'm staying here with Sidney.”

Andrew's eyebrows climbed a hair—and then stopped. And he smiled.

“That's a good idea.”

“I thought so,” Daniel said smugly. “I won't be any good at the office anyway, and Lis is much better than I am at coordinating things. So, she'll hold the fort there, and I will here.” He turned to Sid. “And then, depending on what happens, you and I will fly out tomorrow night, right after the game.”

“How did you know. . . ?”

“Sidney, there's no need to insult me. First of all, I've known Sasha as long as he's been alive. And secondly, he's a trained singer; his voice carries. As does yours, actually.” He looked around, somewhat disparagingly. “The acoustics in this place bother me; we should work on that next. And Sasha, you're lucky your mother was on the phone with Julia; you know how she feels about superstitions.”

“I do know. But . . . oh, Dad. If you're about to fall off a cliff and you don't know how deep the chasm is, you'll grab hold of anything.”

Daniel leaned over and kissed his son. “I do know that, Sasha. The human brain is an extraordinary organ: it houses both the intellect and the imagination. And often, life is simply a negotiation between the two. Or, perhaps, a state of détente. But sometimes, you have to let one reign supreme. Or run riot.”

“How do you feel about superstitions, Daniel?” Sid was curious. “You're a scientist. Aren't you supposed to be all . . . what, empirical?”

“That's the theory.” He laughed. “To be honest with you, Sidney, I believe that there are things in this world that science can't explain. To expand on Sasha's metaphor: sometimes, a tiny tuft of grass will hold long enough to keep somebody from falling into that chasm. Or, long enough for help to arrive, at any rate. I'm not a particularly religious person, but sometimes one does have to take a leap of faith.”

“Well, speaking for myself,” Andrew said dryly, “I would much prefer to keep my feet on solid ground. However, that seems not to be possible right now, so I'm depending on the two of you and on Mom to be on stand-by. With ropes. And ladders. And possibly large quantities of alcohol.”

“You know we'll do everything we can. Sidney, will you be able to get me a ticket for the game tomorrow? Then we can go directly to the airport from Consol.”

“Of course I can. And . . . what time does the plane leave? So I can . . . plan.” With the urgency he felt right now, he'd be able to run out of Consol still in his gear, but he knew the feeling wouldn't last. Plus, they'd never let him on a plane stinking like that.

“I don't know yet; Simon's working in order of chronological importance. He suggested that chartering a plane might make the most sense—since there's no way to predict if you'll finish in regulation or not—and I'm inclined to agree. Especially with your media duties.”

“I'll tell Jen that I can't do media at all.”

“How nice: a silver lining. You may thank me later, _mon oie_.” Andrew yawned. “I'm exhausted. Drained. Spent, actually, and not in a good way. I wonder if I'll sleep at all tonight, or if I should anesthetize myself.”

“I wouldn't. Plus, remember, Sasha: you're on clear liquids from midnight on, and nothing by mouth after six. Just in case.”

“I know. I'm taking comfort in the fact that vodka is, in fact, a clear liquid.” He yawned again.

Sid looked at the clock on the microwave. “Um, Tommy'll probably be home soon. How do you want to handle that?”

Andrew stood up. “I don't intend to handle it at all. I can't talk about this any more tonight. I'm sorry if that's rude, but I can't. I don't intend to keep this a secret—well, particularly not from Tommy. Just tell him I'm not feeling well, and have gone to bed. You have my permission to tell him the whole story—such as it is—tomorrow. After I've gone.” His face changed.

“What?”

“I suppose I have to call Bradley. Good God; I can't believe I didn't think of that already.”

“Tomorrow is soon enough, Sasha,” his father said. “Or, if you want, I'll call him for you.”

“No.” Andrew sounded definite. “I'll do it. I have to; it wouldn't be fair otherwise. But tomorrow.” He bit his lip. “Sidney: would you come upstairs with me? I'd . . . appreciate the company.”

“I was going to. I'll join you as soon as I clean up here.”

“Thanks.” Andrew picked up his drink and drained the dregs. He held the glass, clearly trying to decide, and then shrugged. “No sense in getting shit-faced, I suppose. Especially since I wouldn't be able to have Svetlana's 'morning after' breakfast. Okay, I'm out of here.” He hugged his father. “See you soon, Sidney.” He left the room; Sid heard him exchange a few words with his mother, and then walk up the stairs.

“Daniel,” Sid asked as he stacked the plates, “where does the phrase 'leap of faith' come from? Do you know?”

“I don't. We could look it up.”

“It's from Kierkegaard,” Elisabeth said from behind them. “Well, to be precise: it's attributed to him. But if I remember correctly, he never actually used that particular phrase; instead, he wrote of a 'leap to faith.' Which to my mind, means something quite different.”

“I guess it does,” Sid said, thinking it over.

“Why do you ask?”

“Daniel said it a couple of minutes ago. And I remember using it once, in a conversation I had with Tommy.” He shrugged. “Nothing more than that, honestly. I guess I was just . . . uh, making conversation. Keeping my brain occupied. You know, so I don't make a mad dash for the bleach.” He huffed out a laugh. “You know, I still can't really believe that I can talk about that stuff now.”

“Of course you can.” Elisabeth walked over and put her arms around him. “About anything at all. How are you doing, my dear? And that is a serious question.”

The look on her face told Sid she meant that literally. So, he thought for a second or two before he answered.

“I . . . don't know for sure. I'm upset. Anxious. Worried—which is different from anxious, according to Tolliver. Which I guess my gut already knew. One thing I do know for sure: when Andrew asked, 'Will I still be able to sing?'” He closed his eyes briefly. “I never, ever want to hear that tone of . . . of _devastation_ come out of his mouth again.”

Daniel moved behind Sid and put his hands on his shoulders. “I suspect you're even more sensitive to that prospect than we are. After all, you've faced the possibility of career-ending injuries yourself.”

Sid sagged a little. “I guess I have.” His eyes stung, so he closed them again. “You know, though: this—what's going on with Andrew, I mean—feels different. Unless his singing is the reason why he's got this growth—and I hate that word; it feels so ugly—then it _is_ different. When Flower and Duper got sick—that was different too, I thought. My concussion—I got it playing. I don't know if this makes any sense—probably not—but if my career ends because of it, well, that's the risk I took having that career. Hockey is part of me, and if I lose it, at least I lost it playing it. Andrew shouldn't lose his singing, which is at least as important to him as hockey is to me, to some . . . random, fucked-up biological . . . thing.”

After a moment, Daniel said, “Well, I certainly hope it doesn't come to that. And I agree with your sentiments, my boy. But . . . bear in mind: singing opera does carry risks. Not the kinds you face, certainly. But many a career has ended prematurely due to singers pushing their voices further than is wise. Singing roles their voices can't sustain. Nodes on vocal chords aren't all that uncommon in Sasha's profession; I'll admit, however, that whatever is afflicting him does seem to be rather extraordinary. Which is typical of him, I suppose,” he added, somewhat grumpily.

Sid tried to smile a little; he didn't think he was particularly successful.

“Still: I'm going to try and believe . . . have faith, in other words . . . that things will go the way the way they're supposed to.”

“You mean, the way we want them to, Daniel,” Elisabeth corrected; she had a definite tone in her voice, one that Sid couldn't put a name to. Maybe it had something to do with her dislike of superstitions.

“I guess that's all we can do. For now, at least,” Sid sighed. “Let me finish this; Sasha's waiting for me.”

But Elisabeth didn't move. Instead, she looked directly at him. “Sidney. I would like to tell you something. Something to think about, perhaps; tomorrow will be . . . difficult for all of us.”

“Sure. I mean, of course.”

“If you follow your heart, all will be well.” She stood on her toes, and kissed his forehead. “Now, go upstairs. We'll finish up here. No, go on; I insist.”

“Good night, my boy.”

“Good night, you two.” Sid gave them each a hug. As he climbed the stairs, he thought about what she'd said. And how . . . different she was acting tonight. He gave a mental shrug; she certainly had reason. He paused to breathe deeply a couple of times, and then went into the bedroom.

**********

When Sid got into bed, he pulled Andrew to him and kissed him. Gently, at first, and then with intent. Andrew returned the kiss with interest, but then drew back.

“Sidney: you're playing tomorrow.”

“I don't care.” And he really didn't.

“Well, I do. And even if you weren't playing . . . oh, I don't know.” He flopped back down. “I want to make love with you, Sidney. I want us to fuck until I can't think of anything else. I want my body to ache with it, so that I can feel the memory of it tomorrow. But . . . I don't think I can. I'm sorry.”

“Don't apologize. Jesus!”

“Please don't be mad at me.”

“I'm not. I mean it; I'm absolutely not. But . . . I'm feeling . . . well, I can't think of a better word, so I'm going to go with impotent. I wish there was something I could do.”

After a pause, Andrew said, “There is. Hold me in your arms. Keep me safe in the night. And tomorrow: kiss me goodbye and wish me luck. And then, tomorrow night: skate onto the ice, knowing that you are in the right place, at the right time, doing the right thing. For me. Sidney, I've told you this before, and I've always meant it, but tonight, I mean it even more: you are the song of my heart.”

“And your song,” Sid whispered, “is my name.” He rearranged himself and then opened his arms. “Come home, Sasha.”

**********

They lay there in silence, listening to the sounds of the house around them. They heard Andrew's parents murmuring to each other as they walked towards the guest room, and then the faint rumble of a car as Tommy got home. Soon enough, the whole house was quiet, except for the quiet sounds of his and Andrew's breathing. Every so often, Andrew's would start to accelerate—and then there would be a pause, a deep inhalation, and then the slow, steady rhythm would resume. Andrew was, Sid realized, doing his breathing exercises. No doubt trying to keep his thoughts at bay; he only hoped he was having more success than Sid himself was.

Time slowed, and when Sid carefully moved his head to look at the dim illumination of the clock on his bedside table, he was horrified to see that it was only just past midnight. He was wide awake, and he was sure. . . .

“Sasha,” he whispered, as softly as he could, “you're not going to sleep tonight, are you?”

“I doubt it,” came the even softer reply, floating to him on the tiniest bit of air.

Sid made a decision. He threw back the covers.

“Come on. Get dressed. Be as quiet as you can.”

Andrew obeyed. They ghosted downstairs, and Sid handed Andrew his shoes. Andrew's eyebrows asked a question; Sid answered it with his most enigmatic face. From the twitch of Andrew's lips, he probably looked like he had gas, but whatever.

Sid knew that what they'd need was in the car, and despite Andrew's bad news, he still managed to resist the urge to check (he'd have to remember to tell Tolliver; that was a second-line compulsion), so they were on their way in less than five minutes.

“Thank God,” Andrew said, and even though they were alone, his voice was at a lower than normal volume. “I was going stark raving mad. But Sidney: you're working tomorrow . . . well, tonight, actually. You need your sleep.”

“I need a lot of things; sleep isn't going to be one of them. And since taking care of you is at the top of the list tonight, that's what we're doing.”

He glanced over and saw Andrew's special smile—or at least, a slightly dimmer version of it—spread across his face.

“Well, I'm not going to argue. Nor am I going to ask.”

“I'll give you a hint anyway. It's something you like to do, but don't do enough. As far as I'm concerned, anyway.”

After a moment, Andrew chuckled. “That could be any number of things. But since sex isn't on the menu for tonight, consider this a warning that I will be officially surprised.”

Sid could pinpoint the exact moment when Andrew figured it out. Of course, there weren't all that many things you could do at Consol at that hour.

“Really? How are we going to manage this?”

“I have connections,” Sid bragged. “And . . . I know the secret codes. Well, some of them.”

“You could ask Dad to get the others for you,” Andrew said with a grin.

Opening the trunk and taking out Andrew's skates, Sid remarked dryly, “He probably already has them. Come on, Sasha; let's go for a spin.”

**********

They skated slowly at first, arm in arm. Then Sid increased the pace, and Andrew matched him, and after a minute, increased it himself. No, Sid decided, as he corrected his own, not increased, but changed. The rhythm seemed familiar, and the minute Andrew opened his mouth, Sid knew why.

“Sasha,” he interrupted, bringing them to a stop; “should you?”

“Why not?” Andrew tossed back. “If things go badly later on, I can't imagine a better way to end my life as a singer than by giving you a private concert. Even with my voice in its current deplorable condition.” He smiled—and it was genuine. And sweet. “Let me do this, Sidney. Here, on your ice, just the two of us. Well—the hockey gods may listen in, if they wish. And if they do, I hope they approve.”

“How could they not?” Sid asked. “Sing away, Andrew. But . . . would you start again at the beginning?”

“Of course, _mon oie_ ; 'as you wish.'”

 


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which . . . well, you'll see.

Jen was waiting for Sid at the end of practice. He welcomed it, since he didn't know how much longer he could keep everything bottled up. He didn't want to tell the guys until he had to; he kept hoping that Andrew would call him with some good news to balance out the bad—but he could tell from the look on his face that Tommy, at least, would not be put off much longer.

“Hi, Jen.”

“Sid.” She looked around, and drew him away a bit. And lowered her voice. “Mario told me that Andrew's . . . not well. Do you have any updates?”

“I wish. But not yet.”

“Is there anything we can do?”

“Other than keeping the media off my back tonight . . . I don't think so. The plan—at least for now—is for his dad and me to fly to Boston right after the game.”

“Well, if you talk to him, please let him know he's in my thoughts.”

“I will. And if I think of anything. . . .”

Daniel strode up just then. “Forgive me for interrupting. Sidney, Sasha just called. There's no news yet; some foolish complication with the blood work.” He handed Sid his phone back. “He'll call you a little later.”

Fuck. “Okay, Daniel. Thanks.”

He turned back to say goodbye to Jen—and saw a bewildered look on her face.

“What?”

“Who's Sasha?”

“Oh. Andrew.” Sid managed a smile. “His first name is actually Alexander. But . . . take some advice, Jen, and don't ever call him Sasha. Nobody outside his family—well, and me—is allowed to use that name. At all.”

Jen's mouth curved. “Noted. And thanks for warning me; the last thing anybody sane wants is to be on Andrew's bad side.”

Sid managed a laugh this time. “You got that right.”

**********

“Hey.”

“You will not believe this, Sidney.”

“If you say so. But it's been that kind of a week, and it's not even over yet. What's going on?”

“They can't do the procedure today because I have a vitamin deficiency.”

“You? You're right, I don't believe it. What kind?”

“Vitamin K. Of all things.”

Sid scratched his head. “If I've ever heard of vitamin K, I've forgotten all about it. What is it? What's it in?”

“To answer your second question first, since that's the unbelievable part—it's found primarily in leafy greens.”

“You? The king of kale?” Sid started to laugh. Really laugh. “Unbelievable is exactly the right word.”

“I _know_! I almost made them run the test again, except it's not worth wasting the time. Not that I have anything else to do. But anyway. To answer your other question: vitamin K is very important for blood coagulation. So, you see why that's an issue.”

Sid stopped laughing. “Uh, yeah. How do they fix it?”

“A shot. Intramuscularly. With a needle that would fell a stallion. I hate needles.”

“I do too.”

“But with a huge dose like that, they should be able to go in tomorrow.”

“Well, that's good. Listen, Sasha. I have to tell the guys; they know something's up. I shouldn't have asked your dad if he wanted to come watch practice.”

“Ah. Well, feel free. Just don't . . . well, don't lie, of course, but . . . do downplay it, if you want to; bad news is always upsetting, and at the risk of sounding arrogant, I don't want anyone's game being off due to me.”

“I'm going to tell them the truth. And you're not arrogant. But you're maybe being a little . . . dim. You do know the guys love you, don't you?”

“That's rather a strong word, Sidney; I know they're fond of me.”

“No. It's more than that. Listen, Andrew. They gave you a hockey name.”

“I know that. But they give everybody nicknames. Well, lots of people; you said it's a thing.”

“Nicknames, yes. But . . . I didn't tell you this at the time, but . . . there's a difference between a nickname and a hockey name.”

“There is? What?”

“A hockey name . . . well, it's . . . it's kind of a secret, first of all. Players don't even know about them until they make the NHL. And, it's not all that common. And . . . it's . . . well, I guess the best word is intimate.”

Silence. “Intimate?”

“Yeah. Giving somebody a hockey name . . . well, it means you're . . . one of us. Part of the team. Someone we'd drop gloves for.” He stopped there and waited.

“I . . . see. Before I start to cry, let me ask you a question. No, two questions. Didn't they give it to me rather quickly? And why didn't you tell me this before?”

“Answer one is: they obviously didn't think so, since they did it. I didn't know anything about it until it happened. Answer two: I didn't want to jinx things. Or, to put it another way: I didn't want to scare you off.”

There was a splutter of laughter at the other end of the phone. “Now that's the unfiltered Sidney I know and love. Oh, hang on.” The sound got muffled for a second. “I'm back. I have to go; yet another person wants to peer down my throat. I feel like a circus sideshow attraction. Not that I've ever actually seen one.”

“Me either. All right; keep me posted. I love you.”

“I will. And I love you.” He ended the call.

Sid headed towards the locker room. Before he went in, he squared his shoulders. He hoped it would be empty, but he knew it wouldn't be.

It wasn't.

**********

That night, just before they headed out to the ice, Sid cleared his throat and said, “Guys.”

Instant silence. He scanned the faces, left to right. Everybody was somber; it was time to fix that.

“I know I told you this before, but the important thing for Andrew is that I play tonight. And unless we're hit with a cyclone going through the tunnel, I will.” Sid grinned when he heard Tommy snort; of course _he_ would get that reference. “So, that's for Andrew. But at the risk of sounding just like my boyfriend: for the record, I would greatly appreciate it if we won tonight's game.” Some of the guys started chuckling, and almost all were smiling. “So, how about we go out there and do exactly that?” He held up his stick. “For Ace!”

“For Ace!”

**********

The Pens took no prisoners that night. They played quick, and, at Sid's insistence, they played clean. They played their hearts out. And of course, they played to win.

And they did.

**********

Sid's hair was still dripping when he walked over to Daniel, who was peering through the cracked door watching the media scrum in the outer room.

“What's going on?” he asked softly.

Daniel rolled his eyes. “I don't know how you boys put up with this, night after night. If looks could kill, Zhenya would have been arrested by now. By my count, we've had seven variations of the question, 'Why did it seem like this was the most important game of the season?'”

Sid snorted. “Because it was. And also the most important game of my life.” He stopped short. And checked in with his head. He'd . . . meant that. One hundred percent. With every fiber of his being. More than winning the Olympics. More than winning the Cup. Because those wins were for Sid the Kid. This win was for him. Even though he'd already won. Because he'd won Andrew.

There had been times—maybe a handful in his entire life—when Sid knew exactly what to say. This was one of those times.

“Daniel. A change of plans. Stay out of sight, please. And . . . be ready to run.”

He walked through the door. And everybody's eyes—and all the cameras—swung to him.

The Pens in the room looked puzzled. He caught Geno's eye, and jerked his head slightly, in the direction he'd entered from. Geno nodded. And then nudged Tommy. And they slowly started edging their way towards him.

“Uh, hi,” Sid said. “I'm sorry to interrupt.”

The reporters started in, but he held up his hands, and they quieted down.

“I can only stay a minute; I have a plane to catch real soon. But I heard about your questions, and I thought I should answer you myself.

“You know, every game is important. And every win feels good. But I admit: tonight's game was especially important. To me. Well, to the whole team, actually, but especially to me.

“See, I'm on my way to Boston. Where my fiancé is in the hospital. Getting ready for some . . . pretty heavy-duty surgery.” He swallowed. “Uh, potentially game-changing surgery. I didn't even want to play tonight—I wanted to be there—but Sasha—that's my fiancé—convinced me to play. For luck.” He laughed a little. “Which is really kind of funny, because Sasha gives me all kinds of . . . uh, crap . . . about my superstitions. But . . . well, in times like this, you know?

“Anyway. For Sasha, it was enough that I played the game tonight. But . . . that really wasn't enough for me. So I told the guys—and they all love Sasha too—that I really, really, _really_ wanted to win tonight's game. For us. For me _and_ for him.

“So . . . thanks for the win, guys!” And with a wave, he turned and slipped back through the door; the pandemonium began before the door had even closed.

He threw himself at Daniel and hugged him fiercely. For all of two seconds. Then he said, “We need to get the fuck out of here!”

**********

Sid's phone was already buzzing madly by the time they threw themselves in the back of the car.

“Henry,” Daniel said, “please get us out of here. Quickly. And at the risk of sounding like a bad movie, please try to avoid being followed.”

Henry grinned in the rear-view mirror. “I love driving you, Mr. Copley!”

Daniel laughed, and switched off the intercom.

Sid pulled his phone out, and handed it over. “Can you please . . . turn this off or something? I . . . can't.”

Daniel could, and did. And then he pulled Sid into his arms again.

“Sidney. I'm . . . astounded. And so, so, happy! When did you two get engaged? And why didn't you tell us earlier?”

Sid kind of laughed. And kind of sobbed. At the same time. He really had to admire Daniel's sense of priorities.

“Uh, well, actually . . . we haven't . . . I mean, _I_ haven't . . . uh, well, as far as I'm concerned, we're definitely getting married, but . . . um, Sasha doesn't know that yet?”

Daniel's jaw dropped. And then he started roaring. When he finally was able to talk again, he wiped his eyes, and said, “Well, on his behalf, I accept. Good God, Sidney: talk about grand gestures!”

“Uh . . . what?”

“I'm virtually certain you just broke the Internet. For Sasha! That's so romantic!”

It was Sid's turn to laugh uncontrollably.

“Daniel,” he gasped out, “can you teach me to look at the world the way you do? 'Cause I really kind of love your world better than mine.”

“I'd be happy to, my boy—if I thought you needed it. And I don't. Sidney, what made you decide to come out tonight? Have you been thinking about it for long?”

Sid flopped back on the seat. “Daniel, I'd been thinking about _not_ coming out since I realized I was gay. I've been thinking about coming out for less than a year and a half. So, no, not that long. And as for your other question . . . I honestly don't know for sure. I just . . . knew. I had to say it.” He huffed out a laugh. “It's not like I planned it at all. Poor Jen. Poor Mario. For that matter, the guys?” He shuddered. “I can't imagine the shitstorm I just unleashed on them. They're gonna make me pay 'til the moon turns green, as Sasha likes to say. And speaking of: I just hope everybody's smart enough to realize.”

“Realize what?”

“Why I said Sasha, and not one of his other names.”

Comprehension darted over Daniel's face, and he laughed again. “Good God! You're going to try and keep Sasha a secret! And it may well work!” He shook his head admiringly. “And you did all of this spontaneously! I am so proud of you! And Lis will be too!”

“Thanks. And I hope so. At least, she can't accuse me of not taking her advice.”

“Her advice? About what?”

“About following my heart.”

Daniel gave Sid a look that he absolutely, positively could not read. Then he hugged Sid again, and kissed him on the cheek. “Sidney, I am . . . awed. It will be a privilege to call you son.”

Sid forced back the surge of emotion those words evoked. Son. Unfortunately, another, much less pleasant feeling was not so easily quelled.

“Fuck! My dad is going to shit cement!”

Daniel nodded. “I'm quite sure mine will too.”

**********

They were almost at the airport when Daniel's phone rang; Sid didn't recognize the ring tone, but Daniel's mouth twitched, and he handed the phone to Sid.

“It's for you.”

Sid took a deep breath. And then hit the “Accept” button.

“Hey.”

“Sidney. Is there perhaps something you'd like to ask me?” And despite its raspiness, Andrew's voice held so much—promise and warmth and love—that Sid relaxed.

“Can't think of a thing.”

**********

Sid was surprised when Simon met them at the airport. As was Daniel, evidently.

“I'm fairly certain this isn't in your job description.”

“You seem to forget that I wrote my own job description. Welcome back, old man. And Sidney. . . .” Simon gave him a hug. “Congratulations on your engagement.”

Sid beamed. And then confessed, “It doesn't seem real yet. I mean . . . well, you know. Given . . . everything else.”

Simon rolled his eyes. “Which is why I'm here. The driver of the car I hired is over in terminal B, holding up a sign saying “Crosby.” With about four thousand paparazzi stalking his every move; I told him we'd give him hazard pay. Let's get out of here; I'm surprised that ruse worked at all.”

By now, Sid was kind of familiar with Boston, and with the area around Andrew's apartment and Mass General, and, unfortunately, with parts of Mass General itself. But he'd never seen this particular wing.

“Wow. Fancy,” he commented; the elevator they were in had actual wood paneling in it.

“This is the DNI section. Which, before you wreck your brain, stands for 'doesn't need insurance.' Now, in theory, privacy is paramount here, but you should try and be somewhat unobtrusive; let's be real: you're the biggest story in the entire world right now. And number two is 'Who's Sasha?'”

Sid winced. “Yeah. I didn't exactly think that one through, now did I? I was so caught up in the fact that he has a private name, that I kind of forgot that it was . . . uh, private.”

“Nonsense, my boy. I'm sure Sasha will forgive you. Eventually.”

“You're not helping, Daniel.”

“Of course not; I'm too busy planning the wedding. It's going to be _glorious_! You know, Sidney, I think we'll seat your father and mine at the same table. Perhaps in another state entirely.”

“Works for me. Although . . . I'm thinking if we lock Sasha and Dad in a room for, say five minutes, Dad will be manageable.”

“Or dead.”

“You've never even met my dad, Simon.”

“True. But I have met Sasha. Okay, down here.”

Sid was on television when they walked in the room.

“Ugh. Turn that off.”

“No can do, Captain Crosby.”

“Sidney!” And Elisabeth was in his arms. He dropped his face into her hair. And hugged her for all he was worth. It took him a minute to realize that she was crying.

“Hey. What's wrong?”

“Nothing.” She stepped back and wiped her eyes. “I'm just very, very happy. I don't think I've been this happy since Sasha was born. That I can feel so . . . ecstatic . . . when my son is lying in a hospital bed is quite unnerving. I will adore having you as another son, my dear.”

Sid hugged her again.

“Excuse me? Need I remind everybody in this room that Sidney has not, in fact, asked me to marry him? And therefore, I have not yet accepted his . . . well, I certainly can't call it a proposal.”

Sid lifted his head. And grinned at his fiancé. “You don't have to accept. Your dad already did. On your behalf.”

“And I accept also, my dear.”

“I hope the three of you will be very happy together,” Andrew grumped, but his heart clearly wasn't in it, judging from the smile that was bisecting his face. “No, actually: forget it. I found him first. He's mine.” He got out of bed and, once he'd maneuvered himself and his IV pole into position, yanked Sid into his arms. And kissed him. Thoroughly.

“Do you hear me, _mon oie_? You are mine. Mine, and I won't let you go.” He punctuated his sentences with additional kisses, each as fervent as the first. “Ever.”

“Never,” Sid agreed, stealing another kiss. “There's not even a question. The Canadian hockey goose mates for life.”

Andrew gurgled with delight.

“I'm so glad we're in a hospital,” Simon remarked; “does anybody else need insulin?”

“Go away, Simon,” Andrew said, not taking his eyes off of Sid, “or I'll tell James you have a picture of him on your desk. All of you: please go away. Give me a few minutes alone with . . . my future husband.”

“A few minutes? Sasha, you can hardly do yourself justice in a few minutes. . . .”

“Come _along_ , Daniel.”

And then there were two. Standing in the hospital room. Listening to the snickers outside fade away. And smiling at each other. Finally, Sid shifted.

“Can we please turn the TV off?”

“I suppose. You'll notice the sound isn't on at the moment; the amount of drivel that's already been said would amaze you.”

“Maybe. Maybe not. Is any of it positive?”

“Oh, quite a bit. But you pulled such a clever disappearing act that the traditional news outlets have nothing but the original . . . declaration. So they've moved on to opinion. That's the drivel. There's some antique man from Canada in an extremely unfortunate suit who's been ranting incessantly—although a surprisingly small amount actually seems to be about you; they should return him to his stasis unit immediately.

“But the Pens . . . well. Mario gave a lovely little speech. And Zhenya actually had tears in his eyes; Marc-André did too. I was truly moved.” He lifted Sid's hand and gave it a kiss. “We are blessed with our friends, _mon oie_.”

“I know. Did they say anything about you?”

“They did. Nothing very specific, fortunately; I'll come back to that in a minute. So that's the traditional media; essentially, it's flailing, because you fell off the map, and I'm not even on it.

“Of course, to get a true sense of what's going on in general—the _zeitgeist_ , as it were—you have to look at Twitter. And I have to say, Sidney, tonight, the Twitterverse is yours. Well, ours, perhaps, but since nobody has figured out yet who Sasha is, you're getting the lion's share of attention.”

“Ugh.”

“Oh, I'd say that public opinion (which, incidentally, is the name of a character in an opera by Offenbach, although I'm not quite sure what she'd make of this situation), is overwhelmingly in support of you. I think every single member of the NHL who's on Twitter has come out, if you'll forgive the phrase, for Team Sidney. For the sake of convenience, let's divide the commentary into two topics. First, your coming out. It will not surprise you, I think, to learn that Jonathan Toews was the first prominent NHL player to take an unequivocal stand. Look.” He adjusted his IV, pulled his laptop over and maximized a window. 

> _Go Sid!_

“How do you know he was the first?”

“Because in mere seconds, it was retweeted approximately a gazillion times, and _#GoSid_ became the hashtag that went 'round the world.” Andrew laughed. “If I'd had any warning about what you were going to do, I would have bet that Ovechkin would have been first. But the Caps were in overtime, so no dice. I'm sure being first made Jonathan very happy; it always seems to.”

Sid smothered a laugh.

“I also got the funniest text from him.” Andrew picked up his phone and started scrolling. “Evidently, Jonathan did _not_ know about Sasha.” Sid peered at it, and this time laughed out loud. 

> _?_

“Naturally, I had to answer him. Look below.” Andrew's reply read: 

> _!_

Andrew dropped his phone and gestured towards the laptop. “I've been collecting the most noteworthy tweets, so that we can amuse ourselves with them in the old age home. I'm only going to show you one other; I wonder what you'll make of it.” 

> _Congrats! #GoSid_

Sid looked from the screen back to Andrew. “Am I missing something?”

“Look at the sender.”

Sid's eyes widened. “Giroux?”

“Indeed. Going to rethink that . . . ahem, rivalry now, Sidney?”

“Never.” Well . . . no, never. Although. . . .

“Yes. Well. Something to think about, perhaps. The second category is, of course, me—and what's wrong with me. Since the only people who know for sure who I am—as far as I'm aware—are the Pens, they are, naturally enough, the fount of all knowledge. And they are not talking. To a man, or woman in the case of Jen, who deserves a huge bonus and will probably require a month's vacation after this is over—they are not commenting 'at this difficult time.' And since even _we_ don't know what's actually wrong with me, I'm not about to say anything either. So there's a megaton of best wishes heading your way . . . well, our way. And perhaps it's because of the circumstances—and by that, I mean, you announced your engagement to another man, who may or may not be seriously ill—but the second fact seems to have tempered the virulence of the reaction to the first. At least for now.

“Now then: before we get interrupted—and this place has a distressingly low regard for privacy—I have some questions. Well, one main question: do you actually think we can keep who Sasha is a secret for very long?”

Sid sighed. “No, not really. But we can maybe do it long enough so that you're out of here and on the mend. The press will descend on you like vultures, and they won't respect the fact that you're sick.” Then he had a horrible thought. “You're not mad, are you? You don't think I was . . . uh, denying you or anything?”

“Are you insane? Of course I don't think that! You're absolutely right: I'm not exactly up for dealing with paparazzi right now. To be honest, I figured that's why you said Sasha. Plus,” and he grinned, “you know my fondness for schemes and plots. Hiding me in plain sight sounds like great sport; that is, as I'm sure you remember, why I dreamed up the hockey concert in the first place. Perhaps we should bet on how long we can do it; I can think of some splendid things to wager.”

Sid leered at him. “So can I.”

“Well, good. Something to look forward to. In fact,” he picked up his phone, “I just thought of an amazing subterfuge. Let me see. . . .” He typed rapidly, and then hit a button. After a few seconds, he laughed. “Take a look. Every word is the absolute truth.” 

> _I hope I'll be able to sing at the wedding! #GoSid_

Sid laughed, and then grew serious. “I hope so too.”

“I know. At the risk of sounding like some fatalistic Russian ancestor of mine, though: what will happen is what's meant to happen. And if I were a soprano, I'd start singing 'Que sera, sera _.'_ Oh, Sidney.” He bit his lip. “All right, I'm just going to say this. I hope you didn't come out to the world prematurely. If I find out that I have only months to live, I'm going to be extremely irritated.”

Sid shouted with laughter. “Oh my God, Sasha; that is maybe the dumbest thing you've ever said!”

Andrew was laughing too. “I guess I could have phrased that better, couldn't I? I _meant_ , of course, on your behalf.”

“Well, thanks. And . . . don't worry about it. Please. You have more important things to worry about.”

“I don't know about more important. But I take your point. And speaking of important: you need to call Taylor. And your mother. But Taylor first. She's called me. Twice. And texted me numerous times. I bet you turned your phone off the minute you left Consol.”

“You'd lose.”

“Really?”

Sid smirked. “Yup. I had your dad do it for me.”

Andrew rolled his eyes.

“And speaking of your dad: he informed me he's already planning the wedding. And it's going to be, and I quote, glorious.”

“If I had anything at all in my stomach,” Andrew announced, “I would throw up. Glorious? Good God.” He shook his head. “I can't think about that right now. Call Taylor.”

“I will. Is there any way of getting some food?”

“I already took care of that; really, this wing is nicer than any hotel I've ever stayed in. I think there's a concierge or something, and apparently they have an arrangement with some of the local restaurants. I hope you don't mind, but I ordered you something unhealthy, so I wouldn't be tempted to attack you and steal it.”

“It's a great sacrifice,” Sid sighed, “but I guess I'm up for it.”

Daniel poked his head in the room. “Sidney, I just got off the phone with Tommy. He says that if you don't call him in the next five minutes with a status report, he's going to start eating peanut butter and crackers in your bed.”

“That little asshole!”

**********

Sid opened his eyes. And blinked. Andrew was sound asleep. Well, he could certainly use it. The flicker of a page turning made him look around; Elisabeth was in a chair on the other side of the bed.

“Good book?” he asked softly.

She looked up and smiled. “Montaigne's _Essais_. I like to read them when I feel my view of the world needs a challenge. Or has been challenged, sometimes.”

Sid studied her. “You seem . . . better. More relaxed, I guess.”

“I am.” She shrugged. “Perhaps it's foolish of me, but I'm much more hopeful now than I was yesterday.”

“Well, that's good.” Sid stood up and stretched. “I can't believe I fell asleep in that chair. And I can't believe my back isn't killing me. Where's Daniel?”

“At Sasha's apartment. There was no need for both of us to stay; he wanted to, but I . . . felt the need to sit here and gaze maternally at the two of you.” The fact that she was smirking slightly did not detract from the sincerity of her voice.

Sid smiled at her. “Well, I hope you got what you needed. And I hope I didn't drool. Elisabeth, you must be exhausted; why don't you go to Sasha's place and get some sleep?”

“I was about to suggest the same thing to you.”

“I already slept,” Sid said, shaking his head and preparing to be stubborn. “You go; I'll keep watch. How long has he been asleep, anyway?”

“About four hours; he fell asleep the same time you did. It was quite remarkable.” There was something in her voice . . . was that disbelief?

Sid shrugged slightly. And then grinned. “What can I say? We're in sync.”

She laughed softly. “You are indeed.”

There was a noise from the bed; they both turned and saw Andrew open his eyes. He coughed—and then his face changed.

“I'm going to be sick!” he rasped.

Sid lunged for the basin. Andrew leaned over the bed and retched into it. He gagged, reared his head back, gagged again, and then started retching some more. Sid stared down in horror. There wasn't all that much, but what there was. . . .

“Get somebody in here,” he said urgently.

Elisabeth eschewed the call button and dashed out the door. Andrew continued to gag, but the amounts of . . . effluvia (Sid was trying to distance himself, since otherwise he thought he'd start throwing up too) grew even smaller. And more . . . viscous. And . . . blacker. Sid couldn't help it; he gagged.

The nicest of the various women who'd kept popping in the night before ran in, Elisabeth in tow. She took one look at the basin, hit the call button, and started snapping out orders.

“Well, that answers that question,” Sid thought inanely. Andrew had stopped retching, but he was still gagging a little, and tendrils of the . . . matter were still dripping out of his mouth. Sid gagged again himself, looked around, and said, “Could you get me a wet washcloth? I want to clean his face.”

Andrew said something . . . well, tried to say something.

“You like that idea?”

Andrew nodded.

“So do I. Thanks.” And he started wiping.

Elisabeth crouched down. “How do you feel, darling?”

Andrew's eyebrows told everybody in a three-mile radius what he thought of that question. Sid couldn't help but laugh. As did Elisabeth.

“Allow me to rephrase. Do you think you got all of it—whatever it is—out?”

“I think so,” Andrew managed to rasp. “I certainly hope so. What the hell is it?”

“An excellent question. Another excellent question might be: why is there so much blood in it?”

Two people in scrubs entered the room. Pushing a cart laden with ominous . . . things.

“Excuse us,” one said peremptorily. Sid and Elisabeth stepped back, and then exchanged irritated glances as the curtains around Andrew's bed were drawn. Of course, they could still hear, not that much of it made sense to Sid. Andrew's voice sounded horrible.

The nice nurse stepped out. “We're going to page his surgeon right now. Chances are he'll want Andrew prepped.”

They both nodded. “Let me call Daniel,” Elisabeth said. She picked up her phone and walked out of the room.

Sid paced a bit, and performed the delicate balancing act of listening to Andrew, and trying not to hear the grating in his voice, which was getting weaker and weaker. Sid found himself pumping some antiseptic lotion on his hands and wiping them constantly; only the fact that the stuff had come from Andrew kept him from taking more extreme measures—like trying to find a janitor's closet and stealing some bleach. He wondered if Tolliver would consider him freaking out because he'd gotten . . . okay, he was going to stick with vomit . . . on his hands to be reasonable behavior—then he decided that he really didn't care.

**********

Daniel arrived just before Andrew was wheeled down to surgery. He gave his son a kiss, said, “We'll see you soon,” and, as soon as the gurney had left the room, sank down on one of the chairs and put his head in his hands. Elisabeth leaned over and patted his arm.

“I know; this is the hardest part. Waiting.”

“It really, really is.”

And Sid didn't disagree. Couldn't, actually, even if he'd wanted to. He was fighting back a storm of emotion: fear and anxiety and desperate longing.

After a few moments, Daniel sighed, and lifted his head.

“I suppose we should be practical and have something to eat. It's probably too early to ask for something up here; shall we brave the cafeteria? At this hour, you might escape notice, Sidney.”

“We can hope. But . . . I'm not exactly hungry.”

“Nonsense, my boy. You need to eat.”

“You do, Sidney. Daniel and I don't need two sick sons on our hands.”

Sid squeezed his eyes shut.

“And furthermore, you'll need the energy. Because after breakfast, you'll have to deal with your phone.”

Sid managed a groan. “I thought you were my friend, Daniel.”

“I am. And as a friend, and your future _beau-père,_ I'm telling you that the longer you wait, the worse it will get. ”

“I guess.”

**********

Sid did manage to have breakfast undisturbed, thanks, in part, to the nice nurse, who offered him some scrubs and a white coat. The Copleys teased him about how they didn't recognize him without a logo, but their minds were clearly elsewhere. As was Sid's.

Once they were back in Andrew's room, Daniel told him to get to work. So Sid turned on his phone.

Almost immediately, he felt overwhelmed.

“I don't think I can do this,” he said. “There's like, hundreds of texts.” His phone made a noise, and an alert popped up. He groaned. “And my voice mail is full. How many . . . you know, I don't even want to know.” He glared at his phone balefully.

Daniel opened his mouth, but Elisabeth intervened.

“Don't badger him, Daniel. Sidney, here's a suggestion. Just scroll through the list and see who's called. Then decide whom you want to call back. Or, actually: why not simply think of whom you want to update?”

“That's a good idea.” He started making a list in his head. And then abandoned it. He opened his texts, and sent one to the entire team. 

> _Ace in surgery now, will update._

Then he sent another one. 

> _Sorry 4 media shit._

One more, he decided. 

> _Cant thnk u guys enuf._

Less than ten seconds later, his phone rang. He didn't even look.

“Hi Tommy.”

“You're right, you can't. There are reporters camped out in front of the house; I'm about three seconds away from causing my own media frenzy. What's going on with Ace?”

“Listen, can I tell you, and you'll pass it on?”

“Of course. All I have to do is walk outside. 'Hi guys. I'm Tommy Standish, media liaison to the gay Sidney Crosby. I'm pretty sure he's still gay. So why the fuck don't you go home?' How's that sound?”

Sid winced. “That bad, huh?”

“You have no idea. But we'll get through it. So spill. How's Ace?”

“Uh, not too good. We don't really know what's going on with him. But . . . let's just say that it became clear this morning that they needed to go inside, and fast.”

Silence. “Oh, fuck.”

“I know. Listen, I don't really want to talk about it.”

“His parents are right there, aren't they?”

“Yeah.”

“On a scale of one to ten, where ten is insane, how are they doing?”

“It changes a lot.”

“Uh huh. And you? Same scale.”

Sid managed a laugh. “Given that ten is my normal starting point, you need a better one.”

“Got it. You know, you should call your doctor; ain't she with the same hospital?”

“I guess she is. That's not a bad idea.”

“I get one every so often. Anything you need? Or anything else you want me to do?”

Sid hesitated. “Um. In 25 words or less: what's the league saying? Andrew said everything looked good, but he was looking at Twitter.”

“Well, officially, Ace is right. 'Course, nobody in his right mind is gonna come right out and say anything else. 'Specially not last night. But unofficially? I got to tell you, Sid, I'm kind of surprised. It really is pretty good. As least so far. Like everything else relating to gay stuff, it's kind of a generational thing. The older players—and every fricking reporter in the country is interviewing them, 'cause of course, they know this—are either no commenting or jawing on about distractions, and can't we just play hockey? The younger guys are mostly saying, big deal. 'Course, some of them are lying through their teeth, and I bet you know which ones. But . . . it don't hurt that you're you, and that so many of the best players are being so positive. Tazer's 'Go Sid!' has been on every fucking media outlet since last night.”

“Andrew showed me that.”

“Yeah. It was pretty cool, I thought. Somebody in Chicago tracked Toews down last night—he was out with a bunch of the Hawks. There's this hysterical clip where they ask him about the tweet, and he gives them the stare of death, and says, 'I meant every word.' And Kane, who's right next to him, leans in and says, 'That's why there was only two of them.'”

Sid almost laughed.

“And of course, Ovi hasn't shut up about it; according to him, he brought the two of you together or some shit like that. I think he's angling for best man or something.”

This time, Sid did laugh.

“Yeah, like that's going to happen. Anyway: thanks for the update.”

“When are you coming back?”

Sid bit his lip. “Tonight or tomorrow morning, I guess. Assuming . . . well, you know.”

“Sid. Are things . . . that bad?”

“I honestly don't know. But . . . fuck, Tommy. Once I know something for sure, I'll let you know. Let me go; I have some more calls to make.”

“Your favorite thing. Not.”

“Yeah.”

After he hung up, Sid called Taylor, and then his mom, and then, after checking the time, Jen.

“I hope this isn't too early.”

“Of course not. I was hoping you'd call. How's Andrew?”

Sid gave her a brief update. Then: “Before I say anything else: I'm sorry about last night.”

There was a brief pause. “About what part of last night?”

“The part where I didn't give you any warning.”

“All right. That part you can apologize for. But . . . Sid. I'm just going to be blunt. You're going to have to play this very carefully. We need to come up with a plan.”

“I know, I know. But I don't want to deal with any of it until after Andrew's out of surgery. After that: I'm yours.”

“We can do a little advance planning. It'll keep you from going crazy waiting.”

“Jen,” Sid whined.

“You know I'm right. So, are you sitting down? Let me tell you what I'm thinking. . . .”

**********

Sid went directly to Consol from the airport. He wasn't at all surprised to find a crowd of media vans waiting, and although there was quite a bit of jostling among the photographers, most of the reporters quieted right down when he announced that he'd make a statement inside. (He did notice a fair number of disbelieving looks, which, he had to admit, indicated that Jen might have chosen the wisest strategy after all.)

Inside, he made his announcement.

“I'm going to make a brief statement, and then I'll take questions. But . . . I don't want to waste anybody's time, so let me be clear. You can ask me anything you want, about me or about hockey. But don't ask me any personal questions about Sasha, because I won't answer them. And if you keep on doing it, I'll leave. I'm sorry if that's rude, but the last 48 hours have been hell.” He paused and took a deep breath. And then another. “So, let me thank all of you in advance for cooperating.

“Okay. I just got back from Boston. My fiancé, Sasha, had originally been scheduled for surgery this afternoon. That changed early this morning, when it became clear that he'd been bleeding internally. He was resting—I won't say comfortably—when I left Boston a couple of hours ago. His condition is serious, but not, at the moment, critical. He may or may not require additional surgery, or additional . . . treatment. A lot will depend on the results of the biopsies.” He closed his eyes for a second. “And that's as specific as I'm going to get. Except to say that I'm actually looking forward to updating you with good news. Because I have to believe that the news is going to be good.” He darted a quick glance over at Jen, who gave him an encouraging nod. “And when Sasha has recovered, I look forward to introducing him to you.

“The other thing I want to say is thanks. To my family, to Mario, and to everybody on the Pens. For supporting me always, but especially right now. And to all the guys in the league who've said such great things. I haven't had a lot of time to respond, and, to be honest, I don't really know how things like Twitter work,” which, as planned, got a laugh, “but I really appreciate the messages from them, and from all of the fans, who've gone out of their way to wish us well right now.” He paused, and then grinned, a little awkwardly—which he didn't exactly have to fake. “And to congratulate me on our engagement.

“So: questions?”

**********

“You handled that very well, Sid,” Jen said, once they'd left the press room. “I'm honestly impressed.”

“As am I,” Mario threw in, “although I'd be more inclined to say that you played that very well. I've never seen you act so relaxed in front of the media. It . . . disarmed them, I think.”

Sid flushed a little. “Thanks, Mario. But give Jen most of the credit; she came up with the plan.”

Jen shook her head. “It was much more of a joint effort, Sid. I do have a couple of notes, though.”

“Can they wait?” Sid didn't want to whine, but he was perilously close.

“Not for long.”

Sighing, Sid gave in. “Okay.” Then he grinned slightly. “It's the least I can do, I guess. Mario, I already told Jen over the phone, but I'll tell you now: I'm sorry for causing all of this trouble. And then skipping out.”

“Don't worry about it, Sid,” Mario said firmly. “It'll be worth it.”

“I hope so.”

“How is Andrew really doing?”

“Just like I said. The surgery went well, as far as they can tell. He can't talk yet—apparently, they're _very_ cautious about that, especially when it's a singer. And the big question is what caused the growths, and why did they rupture? Oh, and let's not forget the really big question: what the hell were they filled with? If it's cancer? Daniel told me that if Sasha has to have radiation, then he can kiss his career goodbye.”

“Well, let's hope it doesn't come to that.” If anything, Mario's voice was more definite than before. He clapped Sid on the shoulder. “Now go with Jen. And then go home and get some rest.”

“I will. Thanks again.”

**********

When he got home, Sid found half a dozen Pens in his media room. He decided it didn't bother him, since there was also a shit ton of food waiting. But before he could even say hello, Geno bounded over to him and squeezed him so tightly he practically squeaked. Then Flower had his turn. And then Tanger. And then Sid put his foot down.

“The next person who gets between me and that food will regret it.”

“You gonna beat us up, Sid?” Tanger asked. “Seriously?”

“Of course not,” Tommy interjected. “He'll get his fiancé to do it.”

“Is real threat, then,” Geno pronounced.

Sid gave him the finger as he filled his plate.

“We've got three important things to talk about,” Flower announced.

Sid made a face. “Can't it wait five minutes?”

“No,” said Nealer. “The topics are: what's the real story on Ace?”

“When is wedding?” asked Geno.

“And what the fuck should we expect from the crowd tomorrow?” Tanger threw in.

“I keep telling you, tomorrow will be fine. It's the game after that we have to worry about,” Flower said impatiently.

Sid finished chewing. “Who are we playing next? I can't remember.”

Everybody stared at him.

“What?” Sid said defensively. “I've had a lot on my mind.”

“The Jackets tomorrow. Coach gave me one more game tape for you to review tonight.”

“That's good. Thanks, Tommy.” Sid took another bite. “The Jackets shouldn't be too bad. And then we play . . . oh mothering fuck. We're in Philly.”

Everybody else nodded.

Sid stared into space for a minute. And then shrugged. “It is what it is. Or will be, I guess.” Ignoring the incredulous looks he was getting, he started to take another bite—and then barked out a laugh. “Hey, maybe it won't be so bad. I mean, when they start yelling their usual 'Crosby sucks,' at least they'll know they're right.”

**********

Everybody was about to leave when Tommy spoke up.

“There's one more thing to talk about. And it's important. Do you have a long-term plan for dealing with the media, Sid? 'Cause from what I saw today, they was playing nice.”

“They shocked Sid answer questions,” Geno opined.

Sid shot Geno a grin. “That was Jen's idea. And it did seem to work. But I meant what I said: I'm not answering anything personal about Andrew. Christ, I'd better not fuck that one up. Maybe I should just try and call him Sasha all the time, no matter if there's any reporters around or not. And maybe you guys shouldn't talk about him at all.”

Tommy shook his head decisively. “No. That's the wrong approach. Completely.”

Sid stared at him—and he wasn't the only one. He opened his mouth . . . and then considered.

“Okay,” he said slowly. “What do you think is the right approach?”

“I think that we _should_ talk about Ace. Jesus, I mean Sasha. You're right, Sid; that's gonna be a killer. Every time I say that name, I expect him to swoop down and brain me. But here's why. If the reporters get intel on him from us, then they'll ease up on you. And that's good for all of us. Plus: you can use _us_ to leak anything you don't want to say yourself. I don't know what that would be, exactly, but it's gotta be useful. At the very least, we can . . . throw 'em off track, maybe.”

Geno was the first to speak. “You good,” he said admiringly. “I think could work. Sid, what you think?”

“I think that I should call Jen. But I like it. And I know Sasha would approve.”

Geno nodded. He asked Tommy, “You have Russian in you?”

“Not recently.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the chapter summary, but today's my birthday and I couldn't resist!


	32. Chapter 32

The next morning at practice, Sid fell down almost the moment his skates touched the ice.

“You okay, Sid?” Coach, who was the only other person out there that early, asked him. Anxiously. With a “Tell me you're okay because I don't need any more fucking headaches” look on his face.

“Yeah, I'm fine.” Sid scrambled to his feet . . . and promptly fell down again.

“You dizzy? Let me get one of the trainers.”

“No. Wait.” Sid got up slowly. And didn't fall down. But he felt . . . odd. What he said was, “I feel off.”

“Sick? Your head?”

“No. I'm definitely not sick. Off. Off balance, maybe. Except . . . I'm not.” He took a few strides, very slowly at first, and then gradually picked up speed. His confidence returned . . . and he realized that “returned” was exactly the right word, but maybe “confidence” wasn't. It was as if some group of muscles he hadn't exercised lately was in play again, and as he skated over to reassure Coach, he felt almost like a piece of muscle memory had slid into place. Weird.

“I'm fine; I guess I shouldn't have skipped practice yesterday.”

Coach stared at him for a second, and then shook his head. And muttered.

Sid laughed.

**********

The game that night was . . . surreal. There were crowds outside of Consol, even when he arrived his usual hours too early. With signs. Both in support and in protest. When he made it inside, he sent Andrew a text.

> _Homophobes cant spell v well_

Andrew's reply made him laugh.

> _Why is 'homophobes' the longest word in any text you've ever sent me?_

It was a good thing that Andrew was an adept typist, Sid reflected, as he began his abbreviated pre-gearing up routine, since he was forbidden from speaking for a while. How long a while was a subject of some debate; Sid had heard everything from two weeks to six months. Even knowing Andrew as well as he did, he nonetheless wondered whether he would opt for the longer or the shorter time frame; Sid could see it going either way.

His sense of unreality increased when they hit the ice; there were thousands of rainbows in the audience. Literally. As well as several metric tons of glitter, which rained down on the entire team after they beat the Jackets four-three. Sid had been the recipient of a typical amount of chirping—most of which was fairly good-natured—but he was honestly touched when, during the handshake line, more than one person asked how Sasha was doing.

Glitter, it turned out, got everywhere.

“We look like a bunch of Care Bears,” Flower groused. And then got into a heated dispute with Duper, who was arguing for My Little Ponies.

Sid left them to it. He had media to face; the fact that he had to do it still festooned with glitter was so far past ironic that he decided that his life had become a parody of itself.

If his first home game after the big reveal was unreal, then the Pens at Flyers game was from some alternate universe. When Sid skated onto the ice, a sonic boom of hateful invective buffeted him, which trailed off—slightly—when the Flyers, who'd been exchanging disgusted looks, started tapping their sticks on the ice. It took Sid a few seconds to realize that they were supporting him, and not the crowd. It took another few seconds for him to grasp that the Flyers' head coach was as surprised as he was. And not nearly as pleased.

And then Claude Giroux held up his stick and saluted him.

> _Did u ever feel like ur whole world stopped making sense?_

They were heading for the bus when Sid got hailed.

“Hey, Crosby. Hold on a second.”

Geno raised his eyebrows and silently asked a question. Sid shook his head, and Geno kept walking.

“Giroux.”

“I won't keep you. Can I ask you a couple of questions?”

“Okay,” Sid said slowly. “But first . . . uh, thanks. For, um, the support earlier.”

Giroux made a face. “We're all NHL. Sometimes . . . people forget that.”

“I guess.”

“Anyway. How's your . . . uh, fiancé doing?”

“He's . . . okay. Not great. Things are . . . well, uncertain, I guess.” Sid was trying very hard to be polite, but Giroux kept shifting from one foot to the other and not saying anything. “And your other question?”

Giroux looked around; probably nobody could hear them, but he lowered his voice anyway. “Uh . . . is the rest of your team really okay with him?”

Sid stared. Things he really didn't want to think about started banging around in his brain. So, in what was probably a vain attempt to stop them, he said, simply, “Yes. The guys really like Sasha. It's not an act for the media.”

Giroux still looked unconvinced, so Sid's worser angel prompted him to add, “They gave him a hockey name almost a year and a half ago.”

Giroux's jaw dropped. “No fucking way.”

“Way,” Sid nodded. Then he frowned. “You look like you don't believe me.”

“I . . . no, I believe you. It's just . . . wow.”

“I was surprised too. When it happened, I mean.”

“Uh, yeah. I bet. Well . . . thanks. And . . . uh, good luck.”

“Thanks, Claude.” Repressing a grin, Sid started walking again.

> _Whats orig Trek episode where no1 acts normal?_
> 
> _There are several possible answers. I'm going to go with 'all of them.'_

**********

“I don't understand,” Sid said slowly. “What you're saying . . . it doesn't sound possible.”

“Well, clearly it  _is_ possible, since the lab got the same results twice. And Daniel reviewed the full reports himself—although you did not hear me say that.”

“Of course not. But . . . how?”

“I don't know.” There was something in Elisabeth's voice . . . Sid wished that he could see her face. Was it frustration? Or something else? “Nonetheless, it is. They can find no trace of cancer in Sasha—despite the presence of dead cancerous . . . excuse me, _anomalous_ . . . cells in the fluid he discharged. Daniel assures me that the evidence in both cases is unequivocal. So perhaps a better question would be, what does it mean? For Sasha's future, of course; I have promised myself I will not waste time in idle speculation.”

Sid was pretty sure that was a lie—at least, the “idle” part. “What did the doctors say?”

“Nothing definitive. Of course.” And despite himself, Sid had to grin; he heard Andrew in every letter of those statements. “I asked Phil to talk with them privately, because naturally, they obfuscate their bafflement in meaningless polysyllabic words in front of mere mortals. And his assessment was: do absolutely nothing. Well, treat Sasha appropriately for the surgery, of course, but nothing beyond that.”

“So: wait and see. I doubt Sasha's going to be very happy about that.”

“He's not.” Maybe the Sahara was drier than her tone. Maybe. “In fact, he's sulking right now.”

A few seconds later, the other phone, the one in Sid's lap, buzzed.

> _I am * not* sulking. I am meditating._

Sid laughed.

> _Come do it in Pitt_
> 
> _The minute I get permission? I am there._

**********

The Pens had a ten-game streak after Sid's big reveal. Much was made of that fact in the press; Sid ignored as much of it as he could, smiling politely and saying as little as possible. He kept his promise about talking to the press, with the result that, after the Pens played the Canes, which they did two nights after Philly, he walked away from the media when they started pushing him for clues about Sasha's identity. Much was made of that too, and when Sid was asked to justify his behavior, which he was the very next time a reporter managed to get close to him, he merely smiled (politely) and said, “I believe my fiancé is entitled to his privacy right now. Until he's recovered, and is ready to make his own announcement, I will do everything I can to safeguard that. I made him a promise, and I'm going to do my best to keep it.”

It turned out that was exactly the right thing to say—at least, according to Jen. Who should know. And who told Sid he was doing a great job. “I think, though,” she said meditatively, “that we might want to rely a little more on the other guys.”

“Fine by me.”

Geno had already gotten the ball rolling on Tommy's plan by mentioning that Sasha was part Russian. Of course. And that Sid had no idea what it meant to marry into a Russian family.

Flower had been up next with the fact that Sasha loved little kids; “How many do you want, Sid? Four? Five?”

The press ate it up.

Afterwards, Sid complained, “I thought this was supposed to be about him; why am I getting chirped even more?”

“Sun rise in east,” Geno said, patting his arm.

But the prize had to go to Tommy, who after the next game told the entire press corp, “You guys do know that Sid never actually asked Sasha to marry him, right? I mean, before he announced it in prime time?”

Every mic in the place was trained on him as the questions started.

Tommy laughed. “I wasn't there, of course. But his mom was. And according to her, when Sasha got him on the phone, Sid got an earful.”

Pressed for details, Tommy laughed again. Brayed, more like, Sid thought uncharitably.

“Well, I can't exactly imitate Sasha—not and do him justice. But I've seen him in action,” (he rolled his eyes, and every Pen in the room started laughing), “and, again, according to his mom, it went something like this.” He stood up straight, threw his head back, angled his chin, and then looked down his nose. He looked . . . nothing at all like Andrew. But he did look pretty funny. And then he opened his mouth. And kind of warbled. In a really stupid, fake-British accent.

“For the record, Sidney, I would have greatly appreciated learning of our engagement before you informed, oh, the entire free world?” And he raised his eyebrows.

Even Sid had to laugh, although most of the cameras were focused on Geno and Nealer, who were holding each other up.

> _Please inform Tommy that he's toast._

**********

Away games after Sid's announcement continued to be . . . interesting. The further south they were, the worse they were. Based on that logic, Sid wasn't anticipating any drama when they played the Habs.

He was wrong. But at least it was relatively quiet.

He'd just gotten back to the hotel, and was on the phone with Andrew when he heard a knock.

“Hang on a sec.” Tossing both phones onto the bed, he pulled open the door. And stared.

“Mom? Dad?”

“Hello, Sid.”

Giving himself a mental shake, Sid hugged his mother, and then, with a mental shrug, his father. Who shocked him by clinging to him for a second or two.

“Uh, come in. This is . . . a surprise.”

“I'll bet,” his father said, somewhat dryly. But with a hint of amusement.

Sid took a deep breath. “Um, give me a minute, okay?” He waited for his parents to nod, before picking up the voice phone again. “Hey. I don't know if you heard or not, but my parents are here.”

> _I heard. Good luck. Call me if you need me. Or the ninja tenor._

Sid put the phones down on the nightstand. “You guys want . . . anything?” He gestured towards the minibar.

His mother shook her head. His father said, “I'll take a beer.” And, with that same humorous note in his voice, added, “At least one.”

Half of a laugh escaped Sid. He pulled two beers out, and handed one to his dad.

Who took it, and before he drank, said, “So. Was that,” and he nodded towards the phones, “him? Sasha?”

“Yeah. He can't . . . um, exactly talk right now.”

“I know. Your mother explained.” His father drank then. “Look, Sid. I understand why you haven't wanted to talk to me. And I won't say that I didn't deserve it. But I came here tonight to do just that: talk. Not to fight. And not to yell at you. Well, not much, anyway. Maybe I should get that part over with first. Why the hell didn't you warn us?”

Sid bit his lip. And glanced over at his mother. Who rolled her eyes a little. And nodded at him.

“Well, like I told Mom: it wasn't exactly planned.”

This time, it was his dad who rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I get that. But seriously, Sid: I had no goddamn clue at all, and Trina didn't know who the hell Sasha was. We could have screwed it all up.”

Sid managed to keep his jaw from dropping, but it was a close thing.

“Uh, sorry?” he offered.

“Yeah, well.” His father hesitated. “I'm sorry too. I only wanted what I thought was best for you. And that was hockey. And I thought . . . well, you know what I thought. And, although it's early days yet, maybe I was wrong, and you can have both. But as your mom has been telling me, it's your life and your happiness.” He fixed his eyes on Sid's. “Are you happy, Sid?”

“With Andrew?”

His father nodded. “Andrew, Sasha, whatever the hell his name is.”

“He's got a lot of them. Which . . . kind of comes in handy. And . . . yeah, Dad. I am. Honestly, I've never been so happy; I never even thought I could _be_ this happy. I mean, there's the whole cancer thing—we're not out of the woods about that yet—and we don't know about his voice—the doctors won't even let him say a word right now, let alone sing. And the press is a fu— a nightmare. But . . . it's like none of that matters. I love him so much, Dad.”

His father shifted a little, but Sid had to give him credit: he didn't look away.

“That's . . . that's good.” He took a deep draught of his beer. “So, when do I get to meet him?”

“I'll ask him.” And Sid picked up the text phone.

> _Dad wants 2 meet u. ???_

He got a nearly instant reply. Sid read it and reported, “He suggests waiting until he can talk again. So, maybe during the postseason.”

Sid's father nodded. “I guess that makes sense. The way you've been playing, I doubt there's much chance you won't make the playoffs.”

Sid resisted—with difficulty—the urge to do a third-line routine to ward off bad luck. “I guess.” The talk turned to safer, more familiar topics.

When his dad went into the bathroom, though, his mom started laughing.

“What?”

“Oh . . . your fiancé has a good sense of strategy. If Troy knew what I know, though, he'd insist on meeting him earlier. When he still can't talk.”

Sid grinned. “Are you going to tell him?”

“Of course not. Your sister would never forgive me.”

 


	33. Chapter 33

Andrew arrived—unannounced—back in Pittsburgh early in March. The Pens were out celebrating a hard-fought win against the Preds, and Sid was thinking longingly of his bed when one of the servers came over and put a drink down in front of him.

“Some guy at the bar wanted me to bring this over to you.”

Sid rolled his eyes. “Uh, tell him thanks but no thanks.” He reached for the drink to hand it back to her . . . and stopped short.

It was a Zen Garden.

He stood up so fast he almost knocked the entire table over. Ignoring the protests—and insults—from the others, he scanned the bar . . . and was puzzled. He turned back to the server.

“Uh, which one?”

She gestured. “There—at the end. In the black hoodie.”

Sid squinted. That wasn't . . . oh yes it was!

He sauntered over to the bar.

“Thanks for the drink,” he said. “Nice Pens cap, by the way; I've got some just like it. And I really like the beard.”

The grin was unmistakable.

“Look. I don't usually do things like this, but . . . let's go back to my place. You look like the kind of guy I'd like to bend over for.”

Andrew laughed—silently. And picked up his phone. 

> _What a splendid idea!_
> 
> _You should see the looks you're getting. Want to introduce me to your friends?_
> 
> _Tell them my name is Raoul._

“I have no idea how to pronounce that. Come on.” He led Andrew back to the table.

“Guys, this is . . . Rollo.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Andrew start to shake. “Rollo tells me he gives the best knob jobs in the lower 48. Anybody else want to try him out?”

He started counting silently. Three . . . two. . . .

“Ace?”

“Holy shit!”

“What's knob job?”

Andrew sank helplessly into Sid's chair; Sid was too busy honking to protest.

**********

Having Andrew back was wonderful, of course—but Sid soon realized that Andrew was struggling to maintain his . . . well, equilibrium would do as well as any other word, he decided. The morning after he arrived, he went to CMU to meet with somebody or other official. According to the extremely brief report he gave that night, he got a lot of sympathy, but little else. Upon further prodding, he revealed that even though he'd e-mailed in his assignments, he'd had to drop all of his courses, since he'd missed so many classes and because, since he couldn't talk yet, he couldn't exactly participate. He said he understood the school's point of view—it would have been different, apparently, if he'd taken large lecture courses instead of seminars—but it was clearly a blow. He continued to do the reading though, and when Sid asked him why, he just shrugged and texted, “It's interesting.”

He came to every home game, which was great—Sid could almost sense his presence from the ice—but after the first couple, he balked at going out with the guys afterwards, and got increasingly testy when Sid tried to persuade him. In fact, Sid noticed after a week or so, he almost never even left the house except to go food shopping or to Consol. He worked out like a fiend—sometimes Sid got tired just looking at him—and he spent long hours at the piano—both the one in his sound-proofed room, and the one Sid had given him—pouring over scores (Sid got a kick out of the fact they were called that) and, presumably, learning new things to sing. Which, Sid thought privately, was kind of—well, was definitely—masochistic. He did fly up to Boston regularly for his medical appointments, and Sid firmly believed that if the doctors didn't give him the okay to start talking soon, he was going to do it anyway; his temper was always . . . uncertain, Sid decided was the word, when he got back. Tommy had made a joke during supper one time about how much quieter it was at night these days; without missing a beat, Andrew had thrown his glass of water in Tommy's face.

Sid wasn't sure which of the three of them was the most surprised. But the look of shock on Andrew's face quickly changed into one of deep shame; he'd stood up, left the room, and locked himself in his studio for hours. When he finally emerged, he pulled Tommy into a lengthy hug. Tommy apologized, and Andrew texted him something that made him laugh. He told Andrew to forget it, and things seemed fine after that. But Sid was convinced that something needed to be done.

In bed that night, Sid said, “Andrew. You do know you're depressed, right?”

Andrew didn't even bother to text the “Duh!” that was written all over his face.

“Next time you go up to Boston, why don't you also see your therapist.” 

> _Because I can't *_ _talk_ _* to her._

“Bring your laptop; you type faster on it. If she's as good as you say she is, she'll be able to figure things out. And maybe even just being in her office will do you good: you know, being in that space. I just feel like you need to do something.” 

> _Perhaps I should start learning sign language._

Sid lost his temper.

“Would you stop being so goddamn maudlin? Try having some fucking hope for a change! Or were all those speeches you gave me about thinking positively just lies to make me shut up?”

Andrew reared back against the headboard, his eyes murderous. But Sid didn't care.

“You listen to me! I spent _months_ in this bed after my head got hurt. I couldn't do _anything_ ; sometimes I just lay in the dark all day. And the next day. And the next. So believe me when I tell you, Andrew, I _know_ what it's like to be all alone in your head with nothing but the darkness there too. It's . . . insidious. I hate what's happened to you, and I totally get that it's the uncertainty that's eating you up, and that you feel fucking powerless. But there's one thing you _can_ do, and that's not give up. Don't give in to the darkness, Sasha; don't let it win.”

Andrew sat there frozen, like a marble statue, and almost as pale. Sid waited—and then watched, fascinated, as a single tear escaped. He tracked it as it made its way slowly down Andrew's cheek. Finally, Andrew picked up his phone. 

> _You're right, of course._
> 
> _But as a motivational speaker? You suck, Sidney._

Sid pretended to be insulted. “Hey! I'm awesome. I wear the C for a reason, you know.”

Andrew rolled his eyes. 

> _I always thought the C stood for callipygian._
> 
> _And you'll have to look it up._

Sid would have protested, but then Andrew held out his arms.

**********

Things seemed to get better after that; maybe it was only a veneer, but it was a beginning. Andrew started going out a little more. He didn't really want to interact with people he didn't know, but he was willing to socialize after games again, and he even started coming to watch some of the practices. On non-game days, he sometimes brought his skates, and would come on the ice after practice—both official and unofficial—ended.

After one non-official practice, which ended with Sid, Geno, and Tommy screaming at each other in frustration, Andrew skated on holding his phone. 

> _What on earth are you trying to do?_

Tommy practically snarled. “We're _trying_ to work on a really sneaky pass. We've _been_ trying for months. But _some people_ ,” and he glared at Sid and Geno, “can't count.”

Geno started in again, this time in Russian. And judging from Andrew's eyebrows, it was something choice.

Sid held up his hand to try and stem the flow.

“I'm sorry, Geno, Tommy; I think it's mostly me.” He manfully ignored the incredulous looks he got. “I don't know what it is about this that rattles me. It's not like this is the first play I ever tried to learn; it's not even close to being the most complicated, either. I mean, yeah, the timing is a problem, but that's not exactly new either. It's like there's too many variables that are unknown.”

Andrew motioned for him to explain, but Geno spoke up. “Play depend on look like doing what people expect, but for real not do.” He looked from Sid to Tommy. “Yes?”

They both nodded. Geno turned back to Andrew and started speaking Russian. Once he began making hand gestures, Sid could even follow it. 

> _Why don't you have the whole team practice this?_

“Because we need them to react, not act.”

Sid and Geno both stared at Tommy.

“That it exactly.” Geno sounded very impressed.

“I do have a brain, you know.” But Tommy's voice had lost its heat.

Andrew laughed silently. 

> _Do it again. And one of you: hold up your hand when it starts to go wrong._

So they did. And then, at Andrew's direction, they did it again. And again.

When they came to a stop for the third time, Andrew was standing with his hands on his hips. He gave Sid a look—one which Sid didn't even try to interpret—and, after shaking his head a little, he signaled to them to wait. He skated off and went down the tunnel; in a couple of minutes, he was back, holding Sid's music player. 

> _The problem is that it's impossible to count consistently. You need a different focus._

He found the track he wanted, and then fast-forwarded to a particular spot. Then he switched to the external speakers, and motioned them to do it again. He hit play, and then pointed—actually, Sid thought with a corner of his mind, he _conducted_.

It wasn't perfect, but it was better than before. Much better. So they did it again. And again.

“This going to work!” Geno crowed triumphantly when they finished.

“I think it will,” Sid agreed, grinning.

“ _If_ we can do it without Ace . . . what, directing us?” 

> _Conducting._

Aha! Sid had been right! 

> _But you won't need me._
> 
> _If you listen to the aria enough, it will imprint itself in your brain, so you'll have the tempo exactly right._
> 
> _Eventually, you won't even have to think about it._
> 
> _You can then concentrate on the other variables. And adapt to them as needed._
> 
> _The way you always do._
> 
> _One of you will need to lead on the ice, though._

Tommy and Geno both pointed to Sid. “Captain Bossypants shouldn't have a problem with that,” Tommy quipped.

Sid ignored him. “Can you make a file of just this part of the song?”

Andrew nodded.

“Perfect. Thanks, Sasha.” Sid smiled. “Let's skate for ten minutes and then clean up. I'll buy us lunch.”

“I'm buy,” Geno said firmly.

Andrew hesitated . . . and then shrugged. And then grinned impishly at Sid. The invitation in his eyes couldn't be clearer. He took off, skating as fast as he could.

It was more than ten minutes, but nobody seemed to mind.

**********

In bed that night, Sid stretched out and pulled Andrew closer.

“Thanks for coming up with that idea today, Sasha; we've been working on that thing forever, and now I think we'll finally be able to get it right.” 

> _I truly didn't do anything._

Sid rolled his eyes. “Yes, you did. You helped me approach the problem in a different way. You're very good at that. You're a regular little GPS.”

Andrew laughed silently. 

> _All I did was pick an aria that had a more appropriate—more flexible—rhythm._
> 
> _And let the others in on the secret._

Sid winced a little. Andrew winked before he put his phone away and moved in to snuggle. But Sid stopped him.

“Can I say something to you? Something kind of serious?”

Andrew nodded, his eyebrows arched in inquiry.

“It's nothing bad. It's just . . . I really, really like the fact that the song you picked is also one you sing yourself. It'll be like . . . having you on the ice with us.”

Andrew smiled, leaned forward a bit, and kissed the end of Sid's nose.

“I think about that, you know,” Sid said, a little shyly. “What it would be like. If you played.” He gave Andrew a squeeze. “I bet you could have, you know. You're good on the ice and with your drive, you would have given it your best. But . . . I'm kind of glad you don't play.”

Andrew looked surprised. Which, Sid supposed, made sense. He thought about how to say what he wanted to.

“I guess . . . well, if you played, I bet we wouldn't be here. Like this. I don't think I would have let myself get so close to you. Or . . . could have, maybe. And that would be . . . horrible.” Sid cleared his throat. “We're a lot alike, in a lot of ways, Sasha . . . but I'm really glad we're also different. Opposites attract, right? Tommy said to me once—oh, a long time ago—that you and me: we fit. We complement each other, I guess. And while I do like to see you on the ice with me, I kind of have you there . . . and every other place, really. I . . . carry part of you everywhere I go.” He lowered his voice. “I love that. And I love you.”

They kissed for a while. Tenderly. And somewhat teasingly, never deepening things too much; Sid had a game the next day, after all. And then Sid lifted his lips away.

“Can I ask you for something?”

Andrew nodded.

“After the season's over—however it ends—could you . . . would you . . . teach me to play the piano?”

Andrew's eyebrows asked the obvious question.

“I don't know. I've been thinking about it for a while—ever since you rented the piano that time. After you left, I'd sit in there. Mostly because I missed you, and I could feel close to you sitting at the piano, but I'd also touch a key now and then.” He shrugged. “I don't really know why. But you know . . . I kind of think it'd be . . . nice . . . if I could actually play something that had a tune.” Sid felt unaccountably shy, but he forced himself to continue. “Even if it's only a little bit, I'd like to share music with you. The way you share the ice with me.”

Sid's heart swelled as he watched Andrew's special smile illuminate his face. And mentally congratulated himself: sometimes, he _could_ figure out puzzles.

**********

The closer they got to the playoffs, the more strung-out Sid felt. On the one hand, he was playing better—more consistently better, anyway—than he had in years (a fact which ate up a lot of inches of newsprint, or whatever the digital equivalent was). On the other hand, he was struggling not to give in to temptation and backslide on the OCD front. And it definitely was a struggle. Tolliver kept asking him if he wanted some anti-anxiety medication, and even though Sid kept saying no, he was beginning to wonder if he should take her up on it. Especially after a home game where Sid found himself literally shaking with the effort to resist doing a third-line compulsion—one which he'd successfully eliminated from his routines in January—before the second period.

He'd just about decided to give in to the compulsion—because he didn't think he'd be able to leave the dressing room otherwise—when Andrew slid onto the bench next to him. He didn't say anything, of course, but he also didn't text anything. He just sat there. And Sid leaned against him for a minute or two. And then, also without speaking, he stood up, smiled at Andrew, squared his shoulders, and took his place in the line heading out of the room.

They didn't discuss it that night, but the next morning over breakfast, Sid asked, “Tommy or Geno?”

Andrew didn't pretend not to understand. “ _Marc-André_ ,” he texted.

Sid thought about that for a minute; he hadn't realized he been so . . . obvious.

“Sorry,” he said. 

> _There's nothing to apologize for._
> 
> _I didn't do anything but be there. Which I'm happy to do._

He hesitated, and then sent a third text. 

> _It's nice to do something useful. If sitting down can be considered remotely useful._

“Well, I for sure found it useful. Feel free to sit down at my stall whenever you like.”

Andrew didn't judge that worthy of a comment; he just rolled his eyes.

A week before the last game of the regular season, Sid gave in and asked Tolliver for a prescription.

“It's getting pretty bad,” he admitted. “The impulse to add stuff back in, I mean. And now that it's almost the playoffs, my guess is that it's going to get even worse. And of course, there are routines that I only do during the playoffs, too. I know you have a copy of that list.”

“I do. I was going to bring it up myself.” She tapped her pen on her pad, which Sid now knew meant she was thinking hard. “All right, Sid,” she said finally. “Let's be practical here. The most important thing, in my estimation, is not to backslide too much; I don't want you to have to start all over again. So: let's focus on holding on to what you've accomplished thus far; perhaps the medication will help with that. But I do want you to review the list of playoff rituals, and I want you to divide them into four groups. The first group should be those you think you would have a 75 percent chance or better of resisting. The second group, a 50 percent chance. And so on. For now, we'll limit ourselves to things in those two groups, but you should still rate the others, so we'll know what we have waiting for us. Oh, and of course, you should single out those that everybody on the team participates in. I know enough to know, for example, that asking you to remain clean-shaven is a non-starter.”

“Uh, for sure,” Sid said, giving her a crooked grin. “That's not just the team: that's the whole league.”

Tolliver shook her head ruefully. “Somebody really should do an OCD research study on professional athletes.”

Sid laughed. “Why don't you do it?”

“I probably could. Anyway: I'll arrange for the scrip. How's Andrew doing?”

Sid hesitated. “Just okay,” he said finally. “He's starting to withdraw again. Did I tell you he signed up for a martial arts class?”

She nodded.

“Well, that kind of back-fired. It was supposed to be this really advanced class, but it turned out not to be, and he got yelled at for being too aggressive. That really upset him.”

Tolliver tapped her pen again. “Is he still coming to your practices?”

“Most of them.”

“Why not . . . have him shoot some pucks? I have it on good authority that it's very therapeutic.”

“I don't know if he will. After practice is over and we're alone, he'll get on the ice and skate, but he refuses to use a stick most of the time.”

“Sid,” Tolliver's expression was sly, “I'm sure I don't have to remind you that you're my patient. I happen to think that it would be extremely therapeutic for you to shoot pucks right now. Too.”

It took Sid a couple of seconds, and then he laughed. “Can I tell him you said it was okay for him to help me?”

“I think we can honestly say that this is one of those times when his presence will be part of the solution, and not part of the problem.”

Sid laughed again. “You've never met Andrew's mother, have you?”

“No, I haven't.”

“Good.”

**********

Sid hated the drugs.

“There's no fucking way I could ever play while taking these,” he complained. “Forget it.”

“Try taking half,” Tommy suggested.

Sid shook his head. “No.”

“Sid. You got to do something. You're climbing the walls, and the first round hasn't even started yet.”

“I know I am,” Sid snapped. And then he slumped back on the couch. “Fuck me.”

“If that's an invitation, forget it. When is Ace getting back?”

“Late afternoon, he said. But I can't exactly fuck 24/7.”

“It'd be fun trying. But maybe not. I guess it's more puck therapy then.”

“I can't exactly do that 24/7 either. And Andrew'll catch on sooner or later.”

Tommy snorted. “Like he hasn't already. Come on, Sid!”

“You know, there's nothing wrong with living in a state of denial; I did it for years.”

“And look where it got you.”

“You're not helping.” Sid closed his eyes; his head hurt.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, and then Tommy said, “Sid. What does help?”

Opening one eye, Sid said, “Huh?”

“What does help? With the anxiety, or whatever.”

“From the tone of your voice, you have an answer to that question already. So why don't you save us both some time and just tell me what you're thinking?”

“You mean, in the interests of efficiency?”

Sid laughed a little. “Exactly.”

Tommy nodded. “Exactly.” He waited.

“Huh?” Sid asked intelligently.

“That's what helps. Andrew. It's kind of freaky: he can't even talk right now, but he can talk you down; he don't even got to do anything. So, all you got to do is keep him close.”

“And how do I do that? Half the games are away.”

“So? Listen, Sid. Obviously, there's been a lot of talk about it. The whole OCD situation. And I'm sure even more when I'm not around. But the guys . . . I think some of them want to ask Ace to start coming to all of the games.”

“Let them. And then we'll be out of the playoffs, because he'll destroy them.”

“You sure about that?”

“Of course I am.” Sid's tone was withering. Just then, his phone buzzed. 

> _On the plane. I have a little good news! Let's have something special for supper._

“Thank fuck!” Sid shoved his phone over so Tommy could see, and then stood up. “Let's go to the store. I don't think I should drive yet; I'm still feeling that fucking pill.”

“Fine. You think special as in ridiculously expensive fish, or special as in beef?”

“If he didn't specify, then he can't complain.” They looked at each other. And then started laughing.

**********

The first game of the playoffs went into double overtime, and the Pens lost. Sid tried to be philosophical, and even tried to console himself with the thought that whatever happened in the next game, he would at least have gone further than he had the year before.

He didn't exactly find that comforting. Until he was gearing up for the second game, and he realized that he felt different. He sat down for a minute and tried to figure it out.

It wasn't until he'd actually skated onto the ice that he pinned it down. He had lost a bit of tension; he'd played the first game, unconsciously expecting to be hurt. And he hadn't been, so the . . . what? Burden of the past, maybe, had been lightened.

He won his first face-off easily, and spared a second to hope that it was a good omen.

It was.

**********

Two hours before the first away game of the first round began, Sid was bitterly regretting his decision not to beg Andrew to come to all of the games. The need to regress was buzzing under his skin like a thousand gnats. He was the only one in the visitor's dressing room, and he paced up and down, trying as hard as he could to resist. He did his deep breathing. He did his cognitive restructuring exercises (or, as he privately called them, his “think warm thoughts” routines). Nothing was working.

He heard the door open, and forced himself to slow down. Glancing over, he was surprised to see Mario.

“What are you doing here so early?” he asked.

“I came to see you, Sid. How are you doing? And please, do me the favor of being honest.”

Sid closed his eyes. And then sank down on his bench and sighed.

“Pretty shitty, actually.”

“I see.”

There was something in Mario's voice; Sid opened his eyes and looked at him. Mario seemed . . . hesitant.

“Don't worry, Mario. I'll make it out there.” And he would. Even if he had to regress.

“I'm not worried about that.” Mario pursed his lips, and then, apparently, came to a decision. “Sid, beyond our professional relationship, we're friends, aren't we?”

“Of course we are! Why would you even need to ask me that?”

“Because . . . before we left Pittsburgh, I arranged for something. Something which I feel certain will help you. But . . . in doing so, I may have overstepped certain . . . boundaries.”

Sid shook his head impatiently. “Mario. You . . . okay. You don't have to worry. What did you arrange? And why do you think it will help?”

Instead of answering, Mario moved towards the door. He put his head outside, and then held the door open.

“Sid, let me introduce you to the new intern on the medical staff.”

And Andrew walked into the room. Wearing track pants and a scrubs shirt. And. . . .

“What the fuck did you do to your hair?” Sid was horrified.

Andrew stopped short. Smiled at Sid. And then turned to Mario, and held his hand out, palm up.

Mario grimaced before pulling out his wallet.

Andrew took the money with a little bow. He then turned back to Sid. Who stood up, bounded over to him, and hugged him for all he was worth.

Andrew drew back after a while. “Surprised?” he whispered.

Sid nodded. He was probably grinning like an idiot, but he truly didn't care.

Andrew turned to Mario, and made a gesture. Mario nodded, and clapping Sid on the shoulder, left the dressing room without another word. Andrew watched him go . . . and then turned back to Sid and put his hands on his hips. He wasn't smiling now.

“If I could speak properly,” he whispered, “we would be having an extremely lengthy argument right now. But since I can't, I will limit my ranting to a single question. Why didn't you ask me to come?”

“I wanted to,” Sid confessed. “But . . . I didn't think it was fair to you.”

Andrew rolled his eyes.

“I told you I liked feeling useful. Besides, you may ask me for anything; you should know that by now.” He cleared his throat, made a face, and then pulled out his phone. 

> _That's enough talking for the moment. Consider yourself lucky._
> 
> _And the hair is a rinse. *Not* a dye. Not even for you would I risk it staying this particular shade of orange._
> 
> _Consider it camouflage._

Sid laughed. And hugged Andrew again.

“Did Mario really ask you?”

Andrew nodded. 

> _It was his idea, he said. As was making me an intern._
> 
> _Nobody looks at the staff. Particularly the peons. Not that he used that word._
> 
> _And look: I even have an official ID card!_

Sid laughed again. All of a sudden, everything seemed . . . doable. As long as Tolliver didn't find out, of course.

**********

The Pens won the first round in game six. Sid enjoyed the symbolic reversal from the year before; he also looked forward to having a couple of days off before the second round began. And he particularly appreciated the fact that the Flyers had been eliminated; the last place he wanted to go was Philadelphia. Not that Newark had been much better.

What he didn't appreciate was the fact that media scrutiny, which had fallen to mostly manageable levels by the end of the regular season, had already begun to pick up again. Jen, who had warned him of this possibility before the playoffs even started, asked Sid and Andrew to a preemptive strategy session.

Andrew refused, as politely as possible, to reveal himself yet, and Sid could tell, from one look at his face, that the decision was not negotiable. Jen opened her mouth, and Sid prepared to intervene, but all she asked was, “Can you say why?”

Andrew hesitated, and then typed, 

> _It's not that I want to be difficult._
> 
> _But if people in my business find out exactly how impaired my voice is right now, it could be very bad for me._

“Well, then, that's off the table,” Jen said immediately. Which was a good thing, because Sid could also tell that the admission had cost Andrew a lot.

As soon as they left Jen's office after hashing out some delaying tactics, Sid asked Andrew, “You don't have to answer this if you don't want to, but . . . how bad is very bad?”

Andrew just shook his head.

Later that night, though, he did answer. 

> _Naturally, there's some concern. Managers are worried._
> 
> _But because I had so little scheduled right now, the fallout isn't great._
> 
> _If they hear me now, there could be panic. And the roles I'm scheduled for in the fall could be given away._
> 
> _If that happens, it might take a while for my career to recover._
> 
> _Assuming, of course, that I have a career._

Sid winced. If Andrew was saying that straight out. . . . “Have they given you a date for when you can try singing?”

There was a noticeable hesitation. 

> _Not exactly._

“Andrew.” Sid put the full force of his captain's voice into his words. “Do not rush things. Wait until you are told you are ready. Promise me.”

Andrew laughed silently. Which was not exactly the reaction Sid expected. 

> _Don't worry, Sidney. I promise I will do exactly that._
> 
> _And by “that,” I mean I will wait until I am told the time is right to start singing._

Sid read the text three times to make sure he wasn't missing anything. Then he relaxed.

“Well, good. Thanks for promising.” 

> _You're welcome._
> 
> _And since I'm being so compliant: why not give me some more orders?_

Sid was more than happy to oblige.

**********

The high point of the second round (the Pens took the Rangers out in five games) was not, in fact, game five. Well, it kind of was: in the handshake line afterwards, Sid finally gave in to temptation and told Lundqvist, “Daniel and Elisabeth send their regards.”

He hadn't seen anybody turn that red since the night Geno had recounted his summer pegging exploits. It was, to use Andrew's word, delicious.

The Bruins were playing the Isles, and it went to game seven. Sid would have been hard-pressed to say who was watching the final game more intently: Andrew or himself. When the Bruins clinched it, Sid looked over and laughed out loud at the look of extreme satisfaction on Andrew's face.

“You don't hold a grudge at all, do you, Sasha?”

Andrew attempted to look innocent—for about three seconds. And then he just grinned. Evilly.

**********

The morning of the first game of the third round, Sid got out of bed to discover Andrew in the bathroom, contemplating the bottle of hair coloring.

“Going to turn yourself into a carrot again, Sasha?” Sid asked, smirking at his fiancé in the mirror. Andrew made a face, and Sid laughed as he edged around him to go pee. Andrew had complained—at length, his fingers flying over the keys—about how his cleverness at making himself a hockey regular, and hence, both unremarkable and also easily recognizable, had backfired on him once again. The rinse only lasted a day or two, so he was constantly reapplying it.

After Sid had flushed, he joined Andrew at the vanity and brushed his teeth. Andrew was clearly deep in thought, but from his face, he wasn't ready to share yet.

That happened over tea and coffee, which, since it was Tommy's turn, were waiting for them.

“Sidney,” he whispered, and then grimaced. He cleared his throat, and reached for his phone. 

> _Please answer this question honestly._
> 
> _Is it time for Sasha to reveal himself?_

Sid forced himself not to react; he wasn't sure how successful he was, since he had no idea what his face looked like. He also didn't know what the honest answer to that question would be—especially since he _did_ know that what Andrew was actually asking him was, did Sid want him to reveal himself?

“I don't know,” he said. “And that's me being honest.” He took the phone and showed it to Tommy. Who gave both of them a searching look. And then he shrugged.

“You're thinking about the media, right, Ace? About how it's bound to be even worse in Boston, since they know that's where you're from.”

Andrew nodded.

“It's your decision, Andrew,” Sid said firmly. “It always has been. But . . . you still can't talk very much. Actually, you're saying fewer words this week than last.” 

> _I know._
> 
> _I don't want to push it._
> 
> _But tell me: what do you want? I really need to know._

Sid took a swallow of his tea. And then made his decision.

“Honestly? I don't want you to. Not yet. And before you ask: I don't know why. Exactly. But . . . it just doesn't feel like the right time.”

Andrew studied him. And then nodded. And picked up his coffee mug. The discussion was, apparently, over.

Tommy, however, didn't seem to get that message.

“I got an idea. About the media. If you want to hear it.”

Sid's “Sure,” echoed Andrew's nod.

“You'd have to talk it over with Jen. But . . . remember Christmas before last? You had a fight with your dad, Sid, and Ace told you to make a nonpology?”

They both nodded.

“Well, can't you do the same thing here, Sid? Not lie, I know how Ace feels about that, but . . . mislead? Say something like, 'Sasha really wants to be here, but people in his situation have to avoid crowds.'”

Sid's jaw dropped. And Andrew's grin spread across his face. 

> _That is brilliant!_

**********

The Pens won the first two games on home ice. And Sid absolutely, positively, did not let himself get too hopeful. Which was a good thing, because the first period of game three was a disaster. Even having Andrew in the dressing room before the game hadn't calmed him down, nor had the knowledge that Daniel and Elisabeth were in the stands; Sid was practically shaking when he went back through the tunnel. He made it as far as his stall—and then found himself being tossed over Andrew's shoulder and carried into a janitor's closet—much to the mingled amazement and, in a few choice cases, amusement, of his teammates.

Sid made four points in the second period.

Upon questioning, Coach offered the media a somewhat garbled sound-bite about motivation.

Sid just smiled. A lot. And then one of the reporters he actually kind of liked—well, a little—asked him, “So, did Sasha send you any messages of encouragement after the first period?”

Sid laughed. And then decided he could actually answer that.

“He did. I'd, uh, have to paraphrase. But it went something like this: 'I would greatly appreciate it, Sidney, if you got your head out of your ass.'”

**********

When Sid finally escaped from the media, he prepared himself for the next ordeal. The rest of the team was going out to celebrate, but he had other plans. And, at least not immediately, they were not the fun kind.

But . . . things went better than expected.

After hugging his family, and accepting their congratulations on the win, Sid took a deep breath.

“Mom, Dad, let me introduce you to Andrew's parents.”

If either Daniel or Elisabeth had any reservations about Sid's dad, you couldn't tell it from their behavior.

Sid took another deep breath. And then, as if alerted by some signal, he looked across the room and saw Andrew walking towards them.

Sid couldn't help himself. He smiled widely.

And Andrew smiled back.

And Sid felt his nervousness drain away.

“Dad: this is Andrew.”

Andrew extended his hand. “I'm very pleased to meet you, Mr. Crosby.” His voice was low—nowhere near regular volume—but still, more than a whisper.

Sid's father shook his hand without hesitating. “Call me Troy.”

“Of course, Troy,” Andrew said. And then, darting an impish glance at Sid, he added, “'As you wish.'”

Neither of Sid's parents seemed to get the reference. But both of Andrew's did.

**********

The following morning, Andrew's apartment got invaded by an assortment of more-or-less sober Pens at far too early an hour.

“What are you assholes doing here?” Sid demanded, stomping out of the bedroom wearing only his boxers.

“We bring breakfast,” Geno announced. He opened the bag he was carrying and held it out. “Muffins. Still warm.”

Sid reached out to take the bag—but Geno pulled it back.

“No yet.”

Andrew, who'd been laughing silently during all of this, actually made a sound at the look of outrage on Sid's face.

“We also brought coffee,” Nealer announced.

“And tea,” Tommy threw in.

“We decided we couldn't wait to find out how dinner last night went.” That was Flower.

“So you tell us.” Geno opened the bag again, and waved the aroma in Sid's general direction.

Sid decided to give in to the inevitable. Sort of.

“I'm not saying a word until I have some tea.”

Tommy shoved a large cup at him. “Here. Now tell us.”

Sid looked at Andrew, who was currently accepting a cup of coffee. And he smiled.

“It was fine. In fact, it went really well.”

Nealer's face fell. “No explosions? No death threats?”

_“Poka net,”_ Andrew said softly; Geno started to laugh.

“What does that mean?” Sid demanded.

“He say, no yet.”

Nealer brightened. “Great! Just so you know, Ace, most of the money's on you. The only people who are backing Sid's dad are the ones who think you have too much manners to flatten him.”

Sid started to laugh. “I guess they haven't been paying attention,” he got out after a while.

Andrew's eyebrows went into orbit, and then he favored Sid with a smile that promised . . . something; Sid wondered how fast he could rid the room of extraneous personnel.

“So, no drama, is what you're saying.”

“None. Well, not really.”

“What that mean?”

“Give me my muffin, and I'll tell you.”

Geno sighed theatrically, and handed over the bag. Sid peered inside. They were all blueberry, so he chose the one that had the most sugar on the top.

He took a big bite, and almost moaned. “This is really good,” he said once he'd swallowed. “Anyway: there was only one tense moment.” He narrowed his eyes at Andrew, who smiled—innocently. And sipped his coffee.

All of the Pens leaned forward.

“What happen?”

“Oh, not that much.” Sid took another bite. And chewed very slowly. When he figured he'd stalled enough, he said, “When we were having drinks, Dad asked Andrew what his message had actually said. You know, the one I paraphrased?”

Everybody nodded.

“So he said, 'Sidney was essentially correct. However, as I believe his grandmother likes to say, actions speak louder than words. So I took care of it myself.' And then he paused, and he did that thing where he pretends he's thinking it over, and he added, 'Or do I mean, took care of him?'”

He looked accusingly at Andrew—whose smile this time was far from innocent.

Flower was the first to recover. “What the _fuck_ did your dad say?”

“Not much,” Sid shrugged. “He turned bright red, and swilled his drink. So Daniel said to my dad, 'It is rather hot in here, isn't it?' Which just made Dad blush all over again.”

**********

The worst thing about winning the third round in four games in Boston, Sid reflected, was that you really couldn't go out and celebrate without causing a near riot. The best thing about winning the third round in four games in Boston this year, was that the worst thing didn't matter; Daniel and Elisabeth had invited everybody—and they did mean everybody—to their place.

When Elisabeth had initially broached the idea, which she had at the dinner with Sid's parents, she said, “whether you win or lose, you deserve to let off some steam. So, why not do it where you don't have to worry about other people? And for those who want to find willing bed partners for the evening—well, the bus does travel in both directions.”

Sid reported her invitation, word for word; he was not at all surprised that the general consensus was, “Fuck, yes!”

Since it was now officially a celebration, Elisabeth announced at the outset that there were rules.

“I will be truly offended,” she said, “if anybody remains sober.”

The party was now in its second hour, and she herself was probably the most sober person around. Even Sid's parents were sloshed; it didn't really take much for his mom to get tipsy, but Sid was surprised about his dad. Then again, he thought, as he drained yet another drink, it was probably self-defense: Daniel had commandeered him for a while, and even Sid found Daniel hard to take when he started discussing the wedding; Andrew usually walked out of the room. Although after eavesdropping on them for a few minutes about half an hour earlier, he'd sent Sid a text: 

> _I can't decide if Dad's serious, or if he's simply trying to torture your father._

Either way, Sid was leaving them to it.

“Sid! Sid, Sid, Sid!” It was Tommy, as plastered as Sid had ever seen him. “You're not drinking!”

“I'm pacing myself.”

“No, you're not.” Tommy's tone was definite. “You're standing still.” Then he squinted. “No, wait: you're . . . drifting.”

Sid laughed. “And you're drunk.”

“I am.” Tommy sounded proud. “I don't usually drink this much. But . . . fuck, Sid! We're going to the finals!” And he threw his arms around Sid and hugged him; Sid staggered a little under the onslaught, but hugged him back.

Then Tommy grabbed his hand. “Come on, Captain. You need a drink. How about a little Zen Garden?” And he started tugging Sid towards the bar.

Sid let himself be led. They'd almost arrived—and Sid was very pleased to see Andrew heading in the same direction—when there was one of those weird ebbs of sound that always happened at parties, and in the near-silence, he heard Daniel say, “So tell me, Troy: how do you deal with your own same-sex attraction?”

The silence became absolute. _Everybody_ in the room turned and stared. And was obviously waiting for an answer. As was Daniel.

Sid's father opened and closed his mouth a couple of times. And then he said, in the exaggeratedly steady voice of someone who's had far too many, “It really hasn't been a issue since Juniors.”

Every single hockey player in the room lost it.

**********

It was with an air of barely contained fatalism that Sid watched game seven of the third round of the western conference. When Jon Toews ripped a hole in the Kings' defense to break the score in the final minutes of the third, he exchanged a glance with Tommy.

“Well. Guess they won't have any problems selling tickets,” Tommy said after a minute.

Andrew rolled his eyes. And picked up his phone. 

> _As if you two don't respond well to challenges._

“There are challenges, Sasha, and then there are challenges.” Sid stared into space for a second or two, and then shrugged. “Well, it'd be hard, no matter who we played. The Kings would have been more of a physical challenge; the Hawks will be more of a psychological one. I just have to say, and I'm speaking for myself, I maybe think I've faced more than my fair share of that kind of challenge this season.”

Patting Sid on the knee, Andrew nodded. 

> _You certainly have. And you've proved that you can meet them._
> 
> _I feel sure that you'll prove that again._
> 
> _Perhaps we should make a friendly bet. Or two._

Sid laughed.

**********

In bed that night, with his head in his favorite spot on Andrew's chest, Sid said, “I don't want to presume here, Sasha. But . . . I hope you'll come to all of the games.”

Andrew reached for his phone . . . and then stopped.

“Of course I will,” he whispered. “You don't have to ask. Although. . . .” His voice trailed off.

When he didn't say anything else, Sid said, “What?”

“If it goes to game seven, I want to watch from the stands. As me. Would that be all right?”

“Of course! Well,” Sid amended, “as long as I get to see you before the game.”

Andrew smiled. “I'll be there,” he said softly; “that, I will promise you.”

Good. “Good.” Sid hesitated, and then, squirming around so he could look Andrew in the eyes, he said, “Listen, Sasha. I can never thank you enough for all you've done for me, so I'm not even going to try. But . . . I am going to apologize, in advance, for any . . . well, weirdness . . . that happens during the finals. No, wait,” he held up his hand; “let me finish.” He took a deep breath. “I've made a decent amount of progress with the OCD this season, and thanks to you, I haven't lost much ground at all during the playoffs. But the finals . . . that's a completely different order of magnitude. And now that they're here . . . well, I don't _want_ to lose any more ground than I already have. And I'm going to do my best not to. But, well, that's hard. So, I guess what I'm saying is . . . you have been warned.”

Laughing softly, Andrew leaned over and kissed Sid. “Warning acknowledged, _mon oie_. We'll just have to keep that brain of yours otherwise occupied, and I have several ideas about how to do that. Not to mention, plans.”

“I know I've told you this before, but I really love it when you have plans. But . . . what are your ideas?”

Shaking his head, Andrew whispered, “I shouldn't talk any more tonight. Tomorrow. Right now, I think we can do without words.” And he pulled Sid on top of him.

**********

“Why long face, Sid?” Geno asked in the locker room after their last practice before the finals.

Everybody in earshot tuned in.

Sid rolled his eyes. “Our medical intern has some plans that I don't exactly want to follow.”

“But Sid will.” Geno's tone couldn't have been more definite.

“If he knows what's good for him, he will,” Nealer cackled.

Sid gave him the finger. And then slumped onto his bench. He wasn't exactly pouting. But he did feel put upon.

His phone buzzed. 

> _Stop sulking._

Sid scowled. And wrote back: “ _Im not_.” 

> _According to the multiple reports I'm getting, that's not what everybody else thinks._

Sid muttered darkly about traitors until Flower told him to pipe down.

**********

Sid was still arguing with Andrew when the doorbell rang. He stalked to the front of the house and yanked on the doorknob; without waiting, he said exasperatedly, “Jon, would you please tell Andrew that this is weird!”

“Andrew, Sid is weird.”

Sid started. “You're not Jon.”

Kane rolled his eyes. “No shit, Sherlock.” He gestured. “Johnny's paying off the cab.” Without turning his head, he called out, “Don't forget the wine!”

“Hey! Come back!”

Rolling his eyes again, Kane snorted, “Talk about weird.”

“See?” Sid turned to Andrew triumphantly. “It _is_ weird. I told you so!”

Andrew lightly slapped the back of Sid's head. “Button it, Crosby,” he whispered.

Sid glared mutinously at Andrew. It had no effect, of course.

Kane started laughing. When Jon loped up, he grabbed the bottle of wine. “Here, Sid: you look like you could really use a glass.”

Sid gave up. And sighed. “Several,” he said glumly. “But I'll start with one.”

**********

As they were cleaning up the kitchen, Sid said, “I probably shouldn't admit this, Sasha, but I had a good time tonight. Thanks for insisting.”

“You're welcome,” Andrew whispered; Sid supposed he should be pleased that Andrew didn't sound at all smug.

“So: did you get what you wanted from Jon?”

That question earned Sid the eyebrows of innocence. Which he countered with his best effort at sardonic skepticism. Andrew's lips twitched first, so Sid gave himself the win. And then Andrew nodded.

“Do I get to know?”

Andrew nodded. “But not just yet.”

Well, Sid hadn't expected anything different. “Will I like it?”

Andrew dropped the sponge, turned, and looked Sid straight in the eye.

“Sidney: if what I want to happen does happen, then you will _love_ it.” He then made an impatient gesture towards his throat, which Sid took to mean that the discussion was over.

They finished up, and just before he turned off the lights, Sid reached over, took Andrew's hand in his own, and gave it a squeeze. Andrew squeezed back, and smiling, the two of them headed upstairs to bed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear I didn't plan it that way, but this chapter ends on a bit of a cliffhanger, doesn't it? Well, if you've made it this far, I hope you're looking forward to the final chapter tomorrow!
> 
> Also: I realized yesterday that I never tagged this story with anything that identifies the whole opera aspect of it. Do you think I should? And if so, what should the tag(s) be? If you have any ideas, please let me know in the comments. Thanks very much!
> 
> Edited to add: The opera tag would not be a warning, but rather be informative, so that people who were looking for fics about opera would find this one. And also, the tag would serve to give Andrew some credit!


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the title of this story gains another level of meaning.

Game One: Pens 2, Hawks 3

 

“Obviously, it was a disappointment,” Sid said, wondering exactly how many times he was going to have to answer the same question. “We worked hard, but we didn't work quite hard enough. I'm sure the entire coaching staff will have notes for us tomorrow.”

One of the regular reporters opened his mouth, but Sid anticipated him. “Before you ask me your favorite question: yes, Sasha's been sending texts. I'm guessing the one you'd be most interested in, though, is one he sent a day or two ago, and it wasn't even to me. Sasha wrote to Jon Toews, and told him that he would greatly appreciate it if Jon came to dinner at my house last night.”

The general tone of the follow-up questions was one of disbelief; Sid chose to answer the least inane.

“How did it feel to have Jon come over? It was great; we're friends. And even if we weren't: as Claude Giroux said to me recently, sometimes people forget that we're all NHL.”

**********

Game Two: Pens 4, Hawks 1

 

“We have enormous energy tonight,” Geno said, nodding enthusiastically. “It all work. And it important. Sasha text Sid before game: he greatly appreciate if Sid get him puck as souvenir.”

**********

Game Three: Hawks 2, Pens 1

 

“You have a great crowd here,” Sid told the media, hoping against hope that the questions would end soon. “I mean, they're fiercely loyal to the Hawks, but they also made us feel welcome.” He paused, remembered Jen's instructions, and continued, “At least, I'm assuming that all the rainbows were for me.”

Everybody laughed. Somebody shouted, “Any word from Sasha tonight?”

Sid grinned. It wasn't just Pittsburgh; the entire world seemed to love “Texts from Sasha.” “I heard from him right before the third. He would greatly appreciate it if I came home in one piece.”

Everybody laughed again, because the reference was to one of the Hawk's D-men getting a little too enthusiastic, and earning a major for it. If Andrew ever got the D-man in question alone, though, Sid was sure only one of them would be laughing.

**********

Game Four: Hawks 2, Pens 3

 

“It's kind of like a seesaw,” Tommy said with a laugh; “I guess both teams are keeping each other on their toes. It's almost unbelievable what it's like out on the ice; I just hope we can keep the momentum going.

“Oh, and for the record: Sasha let me know he'd greatly appreciate it if I made sure Sid napped on the plane ride home.”

**********

Game Five: Pens 2, Hawks 0

 

“It felt like one of the longest games I've ever played,” Flower admitted. “I'm just thankful I was up to the task.

“And speaking of being thankful: Sasha would greatly appreciate it if I reminded Sid that he's supposed to eat fish at least three times a week.”

**********

Game Six: Hawks 4, Pens 2

 

“As much as I would have liked to end the series with this game,” Sid said, forcing himself to keep his tone even, “the Hawks did their best to make sure that didn't happen. That's why they're such a great team; they get inspired when it comes down to the wire. So, it's on to game seven. And I know I speak for everyone in the Pens organization when I say that I hope we're just as inspired then as the Hawks were today.”

He held up his hand to forestall questions.

“And I'd also like to say, on a personal note, that for sure I'm going to be incredibly motivated to play my absolute best next time. Because, just before I came out to talk to you guys, Sasha sent me a text. He would greatly appreciate it if I got him a ticket; he's going to be in the stands for game seven!”

**********

Sid smiled as Andrew slid back onto the bench next to him.

“I kind of got used to the beard. But you look like you now. Well, almost.”

“I will never color my hair again,” Andrew said, his lips nearly touching Sid's ear. “How are you holding up?”

Sid checked in with his head. “I'm good. And before your eyebrows ask me if I'm sure, I'll be more specific: I'm as good as it's possible to be.”

Andrew smiled. And took Sid's hand and gave it a squeeze. But he didn't let go, so they sat there for a minute, watching everybody else finish gearing up. Finally, Sid nudged Andrew.

“You should go get ready; your parents will be waiting.”

Andrew nodded. He stood up and drew Sid close to him.

“I love you, Sidney,” he whispered. “Now and always.”

Sid leaned his forehead against Andrew's. “And I love you. Remember: I'm a Pen for life, and I'm yours forever.”

Andrew kissed him. “Play well, _mon oie_.” He made a quick circuit of the dressing room, and then, after giving Sid one last kiss, he picked up his garment bag and strode out of the room.

“He can't change in here?” Tanger asked.

Sid shook his head. And laughed a little. “He got a new suit; he said he wants to stun me with it.”

“If he really wants to knock you out, he should make you pay for it,” was Tommy's opinion.

“No way in hell,” Sid retorted; “he's worth a lot more than I am!” He grinned at the jeers of derision coming his way.

“So, Sid: what's the plan?” Flower asked. “How are you going to handle the whole Sasha thing?”

“I'm trying not to think about it right now,” Sid admitted. “I told him to work something out with Jen.” He shrugged. “To be honest, at this point, I don't really care.” Then he grinned again. “Apparently, _#IWouldGreatlyAppreciate_ is still in the top ten on Twitter.”

Everybody laughed.

Just before they left the dressing room, Sid cleared his throat.

“Hey guys.”

He looked from right to left.

“I know we'll do the best we can out there. So let me just say. . . .” He paused, considered, and then looked from left to right; he had to save something for next season, after all. “Thanks. For everything.”

**********

The crowd was insane, even by game seven standards; Sid could barely hear the announcer as he skated onto the ice.

They lined up, waiting. Sid noticed Jon Toews smiling at him. So he smiled back. There was a microphone on the ice, but nobody in front of it yet. Sid hoped there wasn't going to be a big delay; he really wanted to get this thing done.

When prompted, the audience stood for the anthem. 

> Today's performer has appeared in front of sold-out crowds with every major company in America and throughout Europe. But to this audience, he is probably better known for a different type of singing. So, please welcome the hockey tenor himself, Andrew Singleton!

Sid's jaw dropped. And as he exchanged wondering looks with the Pens closest to him, Andrew came out of the visitor's tunnel and _skated_ towards them, waving to the crowd. When he reached center ice, he turned around and skated backwards—and, in a move that Sid had seen him practice for at least three weeks, stopped expertly just before the mic. How long had he been planning this?

The Pens were cheering wildly, as were the Hawks; Jon was also smirking in Sid's direction. For his part, Sid didn't even know how his heart was still inside his chest. He felt . . . joyous. Jubilant. Andrew. On the ice. Before game seven! And then Sid felt a stab of concern. What about his voice?

But Andrew didn't seem at all worried. Except. . . . Sid narrowed his eyes. Andrew's left hand was shaking. Just a little.

When the noise died down, the music began and he started to sing. His voice rang out, sure and confident; when he got to the part about the rockets, it grew even stronger, more powerful—almost as if it could sweep everybody in the arena up and carry them away with it.

And when he sang the words, “our flag was still there,” his hand made a convulsive little movement. Upwards. And Sid would have bet that if Andrew had let himself complete the gesture, he would have touched his throat. He had to be thinking of his voice!

Andrew ended the anthem with an ornament on the final word, and his voice soared upwards. He held the note—and even before he finished it, the crowd started cheering again.

He looked up at the stands and smiled. And then bowed; from this angle, Sid could see him blinking rapidly. And his heart swelled again.

After taking another bow, Andrew skated over to Jon to shake hands and exchange an abbreviated bro-hug, as well as a few words. Andrew then skated down the line of applauding Hawks, smiling and joking with them.

When he'd passed them all, he whipped around and grinned even more widely as he headed for the Pens. He threw his head back and laughed as they started shouting out his name. His hockey name.

Sid thrust his stick at Geno and stepped out of line.

Andrew saw him. And slowed down. Their eyes met.

Sid held his arms out. And with a look of utter delight on his face, Andrew sped up and skated right into them. And every player on the ice started cheering as Andrew hoisted Sid up.

They were both laughing wildly now; hooking his legs around Andrew for balance, Sid grabbed his head and kissed him heartily.

The crowd was going berserk.

All too soon, Sid dropped his legs back down, and Andrew released him. Leaning in, he said directly into Sid's ear, “Win us the Cup, _mon oie!_ ” He skated away and headed for the tunnel, pausing only for a second to call out to the Hawks, “You're all invited to the wedding!”

Sid had barely stopped laughing when the first period began.

**********

Neither side had scored by the end of the first—and not from lack of trying: both Flower and Crawford had to be masses of bruises already. Or should that be again? Sid wondered, as he swallowed some Gatorade greedily.

Jen appeared at his elbow. She opened her mouth, but Sid got in first.

“I'm sorry if we . . . or, you know, _I_ . . . made your life more difficult, Jen.”

She laughed. “Don't worry about it, Sid. You'll make it up to me.”

“I will?”

“You _and_ your fiancé.” She grinned. “With the ammunition I have, you'll both be doing interviews until next season.”

Sid groaned. Like they weren't going to be anyway; Jen wasn't even supposed to mention that topic until after the finals were over.

“Anyway: the press captured Andrew as he was heading towards the stands, and he talked to them a little.” She woke up her tablet. “I thought you'd like to see this clip.”

Sid looked down at the image of a smiling Andrew. 

> “So what was wrong with you?”
> 
> “I had a large growth here,” he gestured, “and it had to be removed surgically. It ruptured, actually, the morning of the procedure. There were . . . complications; let's just leave it at that for now.”
> 
> “You sounded pretty great out there.”
> 
> He smiled again. “Why, thank you. This was the first time I've sung a note in months; my doctors are probably going to be furious.”
> 
> “Why'd you do it? Wasn't it risky?”
> 
> “It was, a bit. I could have crashed and burned out there; this is not exactly a low-profile event.” He laughed. And cleared his throat. “As for why?” He paused. “I found that I literally could not resist the idea of singing today. And if my voice hadn't been up to the challenge? Well, as I told myself when I decided to do it: I honestly don't think there's a better time or place to take such a risk. And I suspect that my friends on both teams would understand—and agree; Sidney certainly would.” He hesitated briefly, and then grinned. “You know, the night before I went into the hospital, my father said to me, 'Sometimes you just have to take a leap of faith.' I discovered today that it's much easier to do that when you're surrounded by your friends!”

**********

The score was still tied at the end of the second, but at least it was one-one: Geno had netted a very nice pass from Nealer two minutes in, and Kane managed a nearly impossible wraparound that could only be called impressive. Sid would have appreciated it more, of course, if it had been in any other game than this one.

Coach came over; he had his most serious face on.

“I don't want this to go into overtime,” he said under his breath. “Flower will do what he has to, of course, but. . . .”

Sid nodded; the medics had commandeered Flower the second he'd left the ice.

“What do you think the chances are you could make that decoy pass work? We only get one stab at it; that's why I haven't moved Geno at all during the finals.”

Sid considered. He opened his mouth . . . and then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw Andrew slip in the room.

“I think there's a good chance it could work,” he said honestly. Mentally, he added, “Now.”

Coach gave him a searching look. And then nodded. “Okay. If we have to, we'll give it a shot.”

“We'll do our best, Coach.”

Coach clapped him on the shoulder and then went to talk to Geno. Sid looked over at Tommy and nodded. Then he turned and yanked Andrew in for a hug.

“Why, hello there, Captain Crosby.” His voice was husky, but it sounded . . . incredibly happy.

“Oh Andrew.” Sid squeezed him tightly. “I can't tell you!”

Andrew patted his back. “You don't have to. Besides, I rather think you already did: out there. You were quite explicit, I thought.”

Sid laughed a little.

“I've also been reliably informed that your . . . well, gesture . . . made both Mom and Dad cry.”

“Did they? Well, Jen showed me a clip of your interview—and _I_ almost started bawling.”

They smiled at each other.

“Of course, watching that clip also reminded me of the promise you made to me. Remember? The one where you said you wouldn't sing until you were told the time was right?”

Andrew nodded; his eyebrows looked incredibly amused.

“And then I realized: I didn't make you specify that it had to be doctors who told you. You told yourself, didn't you?”

Andrew laughed. “Guilty. Well, more or less.” He then leaned a little closer. “Are you happy I did?”

“Sasha, you don't even have to ask.”

Andrew hugged him again. After a bit, though, he sighed.

“I suppose I should go back,” he said reluctantly. “But . . . I just wanted to see you.”

“I'm glad you did. And you can come any time you want: you have a key card, after all.”

“For the moment, anyway; I imagine Mario will want it back.” He sighed again. And then his face brightened. “I'm sure I could convince Dad to clone it!”

**********

With the score still tied one-one, Sid wasn't surprised when Coach made a line change on the fly with only a few minutes left in regulation. “This is it,” he told himself.

Geno's appearance with Sid had the desired effect of making the Hawks wary, and they immediately redeployed. Sid forced himself to focus—and, almost as if it were preordained, he captured the puck.

“ _Amis_ ,” he shouted, ignoring the looks he got.

Andrew began to sing in his head. 

> _Amis, amis, secondez ma vengeance . . ._

He eluded a random Hawk and passed to Geno. 

> _Suivez moi! Suivez moi!_

Geno barreled through the screen and sent the puck back. 

> _Trompons l'espérance homicide . . ._

Speeding up, Sid changed direction, and spared one glance for Geno's most logical trajectory. 

> _Suivez moi . . ._

He deked, swerved, and deked again. Almost time. 

> _Sur mes pas . . ._

Sid deked once more as Geno shouted something in Russian; the Hawks' defense reacted as Geno tore across the ice. 

> _. . . Aux combats . . ._

Without looking, Sid passed the puck. 

> _. . . Ou victoire . . ._

And Tommy spun and hooked it into the net.

The sound of the goal horn was as sweet as Andrew's voice. Sid's eyes shot to the clock, and he had just enough time to think that never again would he consider 13 an unlucky number, when he and Geno reached—and collided with—Tommy.

**********

Sid approached the handshake line, took one look at Jon's face, and said to himself, “Fuck it.” Ignoring Jon's hand, he hugged him instead.

“I wish we both could have won,” he said. “And I mean that.”

Jon barked out a semblance of a laugh. “I believe you. Congratulations, Sid.”

“Thanks. Anyway: you are going to come to the wedding, right? I really hope you do. I don't even know when it's going to be. Or where. Andrew's father is in charge; he's kind of insane about it. But please come. Okay?”

By this point, Jon was laughing for real. As was everybody in earshot. Sid ignored them.

“Jon? Are you going to come?”

“Yes!”

“Good.” Sid nodded, and moved on.

“Great game. I hope you can come to the wedding. It'll probably be this summer sometime.”

“Great game. I hope you can come to the wedding. We'll send you an invitation. Once we have some.”

When he got to Kane, he said, “Great game; that was a sweet goal you made. You're going to come to the wedding, right?

“Yes, you freak, I'll come to your wedding.”

“Good. Hey, Saad. Great game. I know Andrew especially wants you to come to the wedding; you're his favorite Hawk, you know. So, please try and come.”

Geno shoved him. “Sid. I'm think everybody know Andrew invite.”

“I _know_ that, Geno. I'm just letting them know that _I_ want them to come too.”

Geno shoved him again.

“Fine,” Sid huffed. He moved on.

When he got to the end, he got out of the way . . . just in time to see Saad yank Tommy towards him and start to kiss him. And Tommy didn't seem to be resisting.

Sid stared for a second. And then he looked over at Jon. Whose face was . . . priceless; he could almost _hear_ Andrew say, “I _told_ you Jonathan is the most insanely competitive person I have ever met.”

Sid laughed so hard he fell down.

**********

When Bettman handed Sid the Cup, Sid said, “Thank you. And not just for this. I know I've . . . kind of disrupted things.”

Bettman didn't disagree. “Sometimes change is good, Sid; sometimes it's not. But I'm a lot older than you are, and I'm here to tell you: good or bad, change is a fact of life.” He hesitated, and then smiled. “I hope things work out for you.”

“Oh, they will,” Sid said seriously. “I'm marrying the most wonderful man in the world. And I'm holding the Cup. Life doesn't get much better than that.”

As soon as he began his circuit, he noticed the Jumbotron. He stopped short . . . and started laughing again; clearly, Jen had been busy.

It was obvious where he was looking, and the noise of the crowd grew even more tumultuous—and Sid remembered Daniel's speech after the hockey concert: 

> . . . one day very soon, when a member of the NHL proudly carries the Cup around the rink in triumph, it will not matter that he looks up into the stands and shares that victory with another man.

“Well, Daniel,” Sid thought to himself, still laughing, “from the sound of things, it doesn't matter at all. I hope you think you got your money's worth.”

And Sid's heart sang as he held the Cup up towards Jumbotron-Andrew, who was applauding, his face alight with pride . . . and love.

 

**********END OF THE THIRD PERIOD**********

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the curtain falls on the world premiere of _Il pinguino ed il tenore: un melodramma giocoso in tre periodi_ , I would like to thank some people.
> 
> First of all: all of you who have read along these past three weeks. I salute your bravery in not being intimidated by the word count (in retrospect, it was perhaps not the smartest move on my part to post the first fourteen chapters all at once; 86,000 words is not a little daunting!).
> 
> Next: my heartfelt appreciation to all of you who took the time and trouble to write me comments (many more than once!). These comments said such incredibly wonderful things about the fic that I value each and every one of them . . . and in particular, I cherish all of those who told me that this fic is actually too short! I must make special mention of reader Quoteless, whom I have dubbed (in my head, at least) my Commenter in Chief, whose praise made me blush on more than one occasion.
> 
> To repeat something I said in the note to Chapter 20: I was inspired to write this story by reading some incredible fics by some immensely talented writers, in this and in other fandoms. So I should thank them too. And I do.
> 
> As I think I also said in that chapter note, writing is, for me, a solitary thing. Those of you who have read the comments will know some of this already, but this story is the first piece of fiction that I have ever completed, and only the second piece that I have ever written (the other one is currently at approximately 400,000 words and holding; I estimate that story to be approximately 10 percent complete--but then again, I thought Sid and Andrew's story would be 30,000 words total, so what do I know?). So I hope you all will believe me when I say that I didn't know what to expect when I posted the story: but the reception it got from all of you made the nine months it took me to write the first draft, the six months I spent revising it, and the eighty-seven thousand times I read the whole thing proofreading it, entirely worth it.
> 
> I don't have any beta readers or anything like that to acknowledge (solitary thing, remember?), but there are three people from outside the Archive that I must thank.
> 
> First of all, Dr. B, from the OCD Clinic at Mass General, for her help and support for many, many years. While I might have preferred this acknowledgment to be in my (never to be completed) dissertation, there's no doubt in my mind that this fic is a lot longer, and probably much more interesting, than that would have been. 
> 
> Next, BEB, my best friend from graduate school, who is one of only two people who read this fic before I posted it, and who not only spent an entire hour on the phone with me heaping praise on it, also started sending me articles on hockey (in particular, about Alex Ovechkin, since she lives near D.C.).
> 
> And finally, PRN, my husband and my first reader. If it weren't for him, you would never have read this fic, because he kept nagging me to post it, until I finally did. He never complained when Sid and Andrew took over the conversation over dinner (well, hardly ever), and if more than once he has stared bemusedly at me and said, “How is this my life?” well, he's entitled. (For the record: his favorite character is Tommy; his favorite chapter is “Thanksgiving with the Copleys”; his favorite scene is the one in the tailor shop; and the line he laughed the hardest at is Andrew's text: “Sidney Patrick Crosby, I'm talking to you!”) Everything I know about romance I have learned from our life together; the evidence of how very much that is lies in the story you have just finished reading.


End file.
